


How the Half Moon Became Full

by Almawardy, Subaru



Series: Kebab Verse (English) [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assumptions are not good, F/M, Lucy has a kebab shop and everyone works there, M/M, More tags to be added, Queer Themes, Sexual Content & Some Violence in Later Chapters, Slow Build, Very Long Fic, discussions on religion, long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almawardy/pseuds/Almawardy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subaru/pseuds/Subaru
Summary: The story of a kebab shop and how Altair Ibn-La’Ahad convinced Malik Al-Sayf to give him a chance. Sometimes there is more to a person than meets the eyes, and Malik is going to find that out.Modern setting au which is going to be extremely long and part of a big story featuring basically every characters of the Assassin’s Creed universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s about a year and a half that I’m crying (writing) this story and now it’s time to share it. I wanted to make these people real and complex, living in a real and complex world. There’s room for laughing, thinking, crying, fucking things up and growing up. Hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like, I’d be really happy to know what you think in the comment section, and if you want to follow me here’s my tumblr where I will publish updates and fanfic related stuff.
> 
> https://almawardy.tumblr.com/
> 
> English translation is by Janie here on AO3!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine

_October, 2016.  
New York City._

– Oh my God, that’s blood! Fuck, are you bleeding? –  
The fat and short lady raised her face –which resembled a hungry bulldog’s– and looked at the saloon entrance-like door right behind Malik’s shoulders. One could see in her eyes the same fear one feels when they’re alone in the house and hear a strange noise. Malik stopped, with the kebab only half-filled with iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and onions. He resisted the temptation to turn towards the kitchen, so that the lady would believe that there was nothing to worry about or, in the best of options, convince her that she never heard that scream that might only have belonged to a plucked owl in the first place. So, he went on as if nothing had happened, keeping on filling the extra-large kebab portion, suited to the XL size of the client. He started humming, as instinct suggested him, just in time to dull the confusing mix of pans and plates making noise and whining coming from the kitchen.  
Malik looked at the woman again and saw her becoming rigid, her lips turning downwards.  
He gave her a forced smile and rolled the kebab, getting rid of the excessive tin foil. He brought it to the lady as one would have a gigantic plush bear won at target shooting at some fair. She thought about it, took the kebab, looked at it; she was obviously scared shitless that whatever happened behind the kitchen’s door had moved right into her lunch. The cook followed her leaving with his eyes until she arrived on the exit. And there she was: with the kebab in her hand, and the bag thrown over her shoulder, the red glasses pulled down to the tip of her nose, and a cryptic stare that he interpreted as, _is everything okay?_  
Malik forced himself to keep his lips spread in an unnatural smile and in order to convince her he nodded as a goodbye, hoping that she understood that not only she could leave, but that it was better that she would. Eventually, the woman disappeared behind the door, moving into the impetuous flow of human beings walking quickly on the sidewalk. Malik huffed, putting his knives and the foil back on the counter. Now, there came the best part: trying to control himself without falling for the temptation to stick one of the knives in Desmond’s forehead, and choke Altair with the tin foil. _Self-control_ , he told himself, _self-control_. At that time, there were no other clients to be seen, so he felt free to act and without even taking off his gloves, he opened the kitchen’s door with a sound bang, his hand slapping the door with its open palm, and walking into the kitchen as if he was Egypt’s tenth plague.  
– Who the fuck is bleeding, you idiot?! –  
He asked with the strength of thunder, while the door was swinging back and forth until it stopped. The scene was even worse than what he was expecting: Altair was leaning on the main steel counter, standing perfectly still, his profile’s lines distorted by the vapor coming from the broth boiling next to him, while Desmond was in front of him, bandaging up his left hand. On the ground and on the kitchen counter there were some red drops splattered around, definitely blood. Once the situation was clear, Malik glared at Desmond, who was staring at him, unable to move and trembling like a small rabbit at a veterinarian’s; basically, looking like a poor moron. Altair, on his side of things, had settled on moving his annoyed stare on Malik without bothering to react any further. Malik swallowed down an imprecation, thinking that those two really made a great couple together: one mute and the other dumb. That said, given that they were cousins, they must have shared some genetics after all. Malik closed the distance grunting, put his hand on his hips and stared at Altair’s bleeding bandaged hand, a Tarantino-worthy visual cut.  
– What happened here? –  
He asked, trying to soften his tone and his glare. He failed.  
– He was cutting onions. –  
Said Desmond, verging on a panic attack.  
– It’s my fault. –  
He added at once. Malik stared at Desmond, silently inviting him to elaborate on that statement.  
– Well, I proposed something dumb, a small game with potatoes and carrots, but then… –  
Desmond stopped; Malik’s homicidal glare was chilling his blood. Altair came to his defense.  
– It was just an accident. It’s nothing. –  
Malik’s attention moved on to his wounded colleague, looking at him in a softer way just because he was in fact bleeding. Altair held his stare, without letting out any hint of pride, or of challenge. Malik nodded towards Altair’s hand.  
– Let me see. –  
Desmond almost lost it.  
– Are you insane? No, no, no, you don’t want to see what’s happened to him, trust me. It’s disgusting, we need to bring him to the hospital! –  
While he was ranting, the man holding the tight bandage around Altair’s wound was trembling like a small tree branch thrown around by the wind.  
– Fuck, will you calm down already? –  
Malik shouted, this close to grab the first nearby pan and hit him until he changed facial features. But he hadn’t lost _his_ own shit yet: if Desmond couldn’t control himself, at least he should have. In the madness brought by the situation, the calmest and least interested in the matter was actually Altair, who didn’t even look as if he was feeling much pain if at all. Either he was a very good stoic, or he was really good at lying.  
– Let me see, I told you. –  
Malik repeated, with a tone that didn’t allow for a reply. Desmond’s face contorted in a snarl; he looked like a child whose mother had forced him to swallow some disgusting vegetable. He breathed in deeply – an exaggeration, as if he was getting ready for a round of bungee jumping. Altair was looking at his cousin without talking, in silent moral support; Malik’s tensed hands were staying, still, on his hips. Desmond started to unroll the bandage, muttering in revulsion. When the hand was unwrapped, Malik analyzed the scene: the amount of blood Altair had lost was worthy of a small amateur horror movie and there was a cut between thumb and index that didn’t look too deep but wouldn’t be dealt with just with a band-aid. Desmond was right –it was a bit disgusting. That said, Malik was not an easily impressionable man, and it was easy to keep his cool. So he declared:  
– Yes, I’d say we need a hospital. –  
Desmond immediately jumped in the conversation.  
– Let’s call Lucy right now! –  
Altair shrugged, not exactly convinced.  
– I don’t know if it’s the case… –  
Desmond had already left, though, with the same speed as a hungry man put in the middle of a free food offering, letting Altair’s waist hang with the bandages stained in red. In his dramatic run, he had attacked the door, as if he was some kind of quarterback, without leaving a trace behind him. Malik sighed and shook his head, grabbed the bandages and wrapped them around Altair’s hand again. Altair moved downwards his stare, entertained by the task.  
– It’s not even so bad. Maybe I won’t even need stitches. –  
Said Altair, highly misdiagnosing himself.  
– You’ll need at least six. –  
Malik answered, killing with two words Altair’s excessive-and-tending-towards-stupidity optimism. He stayed focused on the circular movement of the bandage that was his first stint as a nurse, while Altair put his free hand on the steel counter right at his back.  
– I can keep on working. –  
Malik wrapped the bandage around his hand for a last time, voluntarily tying it tighter than necessary, a gesture without any courtesy whatsoever.  
– That’s bullshit. –  
He commented, as dry as the sex life of a woman going through her menopause, and he raised his eyes on his co-worker’s face, seeing a shadow of pain for the first time. Altair took a deep breath, admiring Malik’s work in bandaging his hand up, and noticing that the wound wasn’t bleeding anymore. Malik, on his part, looked a bit proudly at his nurse-worthy work.  
– Thank you. –  
Altair whispered with his lips pressing together. Malik tried to lighten up the situation.  
– Well, compliments, though. It’s remarkable, after just one month. –  
He smiled, knowing that his sarcasm might not be appreciated, even if he had guessed that Altair wasn’t the kind of guy who got easily offended. Or maybe he was the kind of guy who didn’t understand insults in the first place.  
– _Two_ months. –  
The wounded man was finally talking rather than whispering, and his eyelids were as thin as cuts on a Fontana canvas. Malik, who didn’t waste his grey matter to remember useless stuff, didn’t let it get to him and replied without interest.  
– Whatever it was. –  
He shrugged, not minding his imprecision.  
– Here, come. We were cutting onions and potatoes when it happened. –  
Desmond’s trembling voice suddenly burst inside the kitchen, saving Malik from the lack of conversational topics that he was starting to suffer from; Altair, on the other side, seemed perfectly fine with staying still and without talking, staring at him in the eyes. Lucy came in immediately behind Desmond, with the face of someone who’s there to solve a problem. Her face was scrunched in worry, but it didn’t touch the beauty of her traits.  
The young owner immediately focused on Altair and, betraying some affection in her worry, put her hand on his arm. He gave her a clumsy smile and stayed like that, as serene as a Buddha on a lotus flower. Malik stayed there observing how they could communicate without words; if he hadn’t known that they had been friends for a long time, he’d have thought they were together. Lucy glanced at the bandage, at the blood on the counter and the ground, and did her math quickly.  
– It looks like a bad cut. –  
She said with crystal-like objectivity.  
– If it’s disturbing, don’t look, okay? –  
Desmond commented out of nowhere, moving towards the group. Malik raised his eyes towards the sky, while Lucy looked at Desmond with a blank expression.  
– I wouldn’t want you to faint. –  
The young man added, evidently not satisfied of having already said a fair amount of idiocies up to this point. Lucy’s eyebrows wrinkled together and she stopped looking at Desmond, he wasn’t the right person for what she had in mind.  
– Malik. –  
The woman started, her hand slipping from Altair’s skin.  
– I need you to bring him to a hospital. –  
Malik went still at once.  
– He can’t drive. –  
Lucy added, nodding towards the young man’s bandaged hand. As if that was the point, of course Altair couldn’t go to the hospital on his own. The question was: why him? Why did _he_ have to deal with it when his cousin was there?  
– But Desmond… –  
Malik started protesting, and Lucy cut him off.  
– Desmond is staying in the kitchen. –  
She joined her hands behind her back.  
– There aren’t any new trays to get ready, he can handle it on his own. –  
Altair looked at Malik expectantly, while the cook’s forehead turned into a large wrinkle. That _we shouldn’t even be discussing this_ tone was irritating like a noose around your neck, but he didn’t want to argue –not with his boss and certainly not in front of his co-workers. Lucy was still waiting, still as stone, and Malik broke the silence like you’d break a desiccated branch.  
– I’m going to change. –  
He sighed, starting to unknot his apron around his waist.  
He left the kitchen without anyone interfering, passing through a hallway that smelled of fried food and going to the changing room, which was constantly humid, for the joy of the mold grouped in the tall corners of the walls. He threw the apron on the middle bench, finally free to huff with all his breath. He took off his gloves and went to the locker, grabbed his key from his pocket, put it inside the faulty lock and the locker opened with its usual squeak.  
He crossed his arms on his hips and took off his shirt, then his pants. From the small windows with vasistas openings he could hear the entire orchestra typical of a Thursday evening in early October: the heels of well-dressed women walking towards the station, runners’ shoes hitting the concrete, girls’ stockings rubbing in between their legs, sneezing and coughing from the first colds of the year, the smell of wet leaves and the last pollens of the season falling into the sewers. He buttoned up his jeans with his head looking down at his feet. The neon’s cold light was hitting him right on his neck, over his only tattoo, that he got on his eighteenth birthday: twelve stars that united themselves into the Scorpio constellation.  
He put on his shirt and set on the bench to lace his shoes. He looked at his cellphone to check the time, but he was more interested in seeing if _anyone_ had looked for him in the last few hours. Someone with two nice thighs, a nice rack, and a big mouth for her age. But no, no notifications for him. He pretended that he didn’t care, took his things and turned off the light, letting the room fill only with the lights from semaphores and other shops’ signs.

There was an interesting crowd that evening, covering a large spectrum of life’s accidents: a woman pressing an ice bag over her black eye, a boy had a bandaged forehead and his face painted in red; then, an old man with his shirt completely unbuttoned had a rash hall over his swollen chest, another had a finger wrapped up in gauze and a small plastic container that he was guarding jealously… maybe a small, improvised recipient for his cut off finger; a girl sat with her ankle swollen as a volley ball, and an exhausted little girl running a fever slept in her father’s arms.  
And this, just in the queue in front of them. Imagine how many other wonders were on show in the hallway, farther down. The embarrassment, for whoever comes with the wounded, was exactly in handling people looking at you with envy in a place that stinks of death. Altair hadn’t said a word since they drove off here. He was there sitting next to Malik with his legs open, his hoodie pulled up and his head down; either he knew how to entertain himself on his own, or he was sleeping under that hoodie. Malik, who was starting to feel bored, moved forward with his back and put his elbows on his knees, looking at his co-worker.  
– Does it hurt? –  
He asked, with professional detachment. Altair reacted immediately, which was unexpected, and raised his head; no, he wasn’t sleeping at all. He shook his head slightly, which Malik figured had to mean _no_. He thanked him mentally for the update, at least now he was feeling at peace with his conscience.  
Then he took his cellphone and checked the time: a quarter past ten.  
– Malik, go home. –  
Altair suddenly spoke, but without convincing Malik to stop looking at this phone. Scrolling through Facebook was certainly more interesting that attempting a conversation.  
– Mh? –  
He mumbled without caring, as he thumbed through a few banal and polemic updates, six-year old memes and animal videos which were either very dumb or very cute. He thought about cutting off some friendships from his account.  
– I can take a taxi, you don’t have to stay. It’s useless. –  
Altair looked down at his bandaged hand, thinking that he must have convinced him.  
– Lucy would murder me. –  
Malik replied, implying that he only was there because their boss ordered him to; rude, on his part, but honest.  
– If it’s because of her don’t worry. Go home. I’ll tell her I told you to go. –  
Malik recognized that there was a certain power in those words, an implication that Altair probably didn’t even realize he was making, but which burned him all the same: the idea that Altair might suggest him how to behave with Lucy just because they were very close friends. An advantage he always would have, being a privileged employee, because he had deeper ties with the woman paying their wages; and this even if he arrived in the shop months after Malik, who, raising his eyes from the screen, glared at him.  
– Don’t force me to send you somewhere else. –  
Altair stared at him, expressionless. The chances that he hadn’t caught the bait, or that he just didn’t want to argue, were both plausible. Malik’s cellphone rang, interrupting the moment of emptiness wrapped up in silence. It was Lucy –Malik picked it up.  
– Lucy. –  
– Is he in? –  
She said, skipping the formalities.  
– No, we’re waiting. –  
– How is he doing? –  
Lucy was trying to bury a small trace of worry under her voice, but she wasn’t succeeding too much.  
– He seems fine, I think. –  
Malik said looking at Altair: he was playing the dark and broody role again, hidden under the hood.  
– How are things at the shop? –  
The cook asked, asking himself if the kitchen hadn’t exploded yet. Lucy sighed, sounding relieved.  
– No problem. Michael is helping with the check out and the counter. Desmond is cooking and Rebecca is coming for two hours of overtime. –  
Lucy hurried to add, – With higher pay, of course. –  
Malik remembered why he liked Lucy: she understood the value of time.  
– And you’ll find a bonus for your time in this month’s paycheck. –  
Fantastic – a woman like this could only be imagined.  
– All right. –  
Malik didn’t say _thank you_ , since he figured it was the least he was owed. It was fair, and you don’t thank for fairness; you just appreciate it.  
– Let me know when you leave. Thank you again, Malik. –  
– Aha. –  
Malik closed the call and looked at his co-worker, and realized there would be no further surprises that evening; Altair was still the way he left him, mummified in his apathy. Another hour passed, and at eleven thirty they still had three low priority cases in front of them. Without this inconvenient, Malik’s shift would have been over at exactly eleven. Counting the time it’d have taken to change and help Lucy close up, and counting the time it’d take to go back home, he wouldn’t have arrived before a quarter to midnight. But of course, tonight he wouldn’t be respecting his usual time.  
He should probably warn the person waiting for him at home, even if he wasn’t in a hurry to do so. He huffed, not enjoying the prospect of what he was about to do. He ran a hand through his dark, thick hair, ran his fingers over his goatee and picked the right contact. He started to count how many times the phone was ringing.  
– Hey. –  
She replied with a harsh voice, far from reminding him of the smell of cinnamon that he once associated to it.  
– Hello. –  
Said Malik, leaning towards the left to find some privacy.  
– What are you doing? –  
He kept on, trying to have a conversation with her.  
– Malik, what do you want? –  
As he expected, she was still angry, but she certainly wasn’t the only one. He sighed with effort, suddenly feeling sick in the stomach and feeling like closing the call in her face.  
– I just wanted to say to not wait up for me. –  
He spoke without an intonation, same as an answering machine.  
– A co-worker hurt himself and I’m with him in the hospital. –  
There was only silence from the other side. Maybe _she_ had closed the call?  
– And why did you have to go? –  
No, okay, she still was there.  
– It was the only way. –  
Incredible: they managed to talk for this long without going for each other’s throats, more or less.  
– You should have refused. –  
And at that, his enthusiasm died. It wasn’t even clear what was the point of the question, if it was him being stuck in an ER late at night or her explaining him how to handle his job relationships. The stomachache was still there and his efforts to keep calm were becoming stronger.  
– Why, did you want to spend the evening together, maybe? –  
Malik’s joke wasn’t well-accepted on the other side of the line.  
– You always have to have the last word, don’t you? –  
Malik started to tap his foot on the ground, answering himself: _yes_.  
– You don’t reply to my texts. –  
He spoke with a low voice, not wanting Altair to hear him.  
– And so? –  
The feminine voice was croaking like some crow and he felt like plucking her feathers.  
– So nothing, Holly, don’t complain if nothing ever gets better. –  
He didn’t want to argue on the phone and double the dose of insults they had exchanged that morning. It was poison, and he needed an antidote.  
– Well, sorry if I didn’t want to talk to you today. –  
Her tone was full of all the indifference and arrogance that woman was capable of. Malik’s insides were boiling and he felt as if a punch had just gone from his stomach to his breastbone; it was the spark detonating the bomb.  
– Then sorry of tonight I didn’t want to see you. –  
He spat out with all the cynicism he could muster and then he closed the call without even giving her time to get offended. At last, the first satisfaction of the day had finally come. He huffed, letting out everything he had been holding in until then, and let himself fall against the hard and uncomfortable chair; a bit like existence, he supposed. He threw his neck back leaning against the wall, with his tired and still eyes staring at the white ceiling. How much of a bitch could she be when she wanted to? And most of all, why was she underestimating the fact that he could also be the worst of assholes when he had a good reason to?  
His head was pounding, and so he closed his eyes.  
To calm down, he imagined giving a few slaps to that angel face under which a demon was to be found, and while he was finding some comfort in that form of self-gratification, a sharp sensation of cold came suddenly from his right temple. He opened his eyes. Altair was standing next to him, with a cup of iced water in his good hand and one for him, that he had placed next to his face. When did Altair even move? Malik hadn’t seen him standing up.  
But in the end, what did he even care? He was thirsty, after all.  
Malik accepted the glass, though he looked at Altair suspiciously. His co-worker moved his lips, but nothing left them. That damned hood on his head was covering his face in shadows, which only helped making Altair look even more inscrutable. He sat again, merely breathing without making a noise. Malik followed him with his eyes, with the cup held in between his hands. Altair took a sip of water while Malik lowered his head, thinking. At which point had Altair listened to the phone call? Maybe he heard all of it, maybe none. If anything, in between all his faults, at least Altair looked like a discreet, decent person. And about _that_ , Malik realized he still hadn’t thanked him for having been nice enough to get him the water. Feeling embarrassed the way you do when you’re about to leave home, look down at your feet on the doorstep and realize that you were walking out of it in your slippers, Malik raised his head and turned towards Altair, but the _thank you_ he was about to say turned dry in his throat, thinking it was either too late, or that he was too tired to do it.  
The girl with the swollen ankle left from the sliding door, a cast all over her leg. Another name was called, and the old man with the unbuttoned shirt stumbled inside, his wife holding him up. The little girl with the fever suddenly woke up and started crying desperately, as if it was her last day on Earth. Malik stared at the cup in his hands, focusing on the small pieces of ice that already were melting. He was convinced that, in the middle of the hell that was the ER room, the best thanks he could give Altair was to finally drink his water.


	2. Chapter 2

_October, 2016.  
New York City._

Malik violently threw open the shutters of his bedroom’s window, as if he wanted to break them apart. The cold air of the morning landed on his chest’s naked skin, while the opaque nine AM light tempered the autumn humidity.  
– You’re accusing me of being a thief. –  
Holly’s acute voice hit the back of his neck. Malik leaned out of the window, looking at the one hundred and sixty-something feet that separated him from the ground. The road’s smoke, the cars in line, the people moving like ants. Malik shrugged, not at all meaning to sweeten the pill.  
– Technically, you are. –  
– What the hell?! –  
Holly screamed, sitting up on the bed with indignation. Malik turned towards her, fixing back up the waist of his pearly-gray track pants.  
– If you take someone else’s money without asking, you are a thief. –  
He used the kind of tone a teacher would use explaining the water cycle to elementary schoolers.  
– I’ll give them back, you idiot. –  
She said as if it was a given, and Malik smiled sarcastically.  
– Same as the other times? –  
Malik moved close to the bed and dragged away the blankets to uncover the mattress. Holly put on a frown on her face.  
– Stop that already. I told you that I’ll give them back, too. All of it. –  
She stood up, taking the pillow and putting it on the nearby piece of furniture. Regardless of his apparent calm, Malik was furious. He hated childish people who’d have no respect to spare for anyone, but he hated spoiled ones even more.  
– I earn that money, do you understand? –  
A bitter tone of voice left his mouth, and he tried to sound more neutral as he went on.  
– Why don’t you ask your parents, since you’re officially still living with them? –  
Malik’s hand slammed against the mattress with an open palm, straightening the creases. Holly leaned down and did the same on the other side. In order to make the bed one person was enough, to argue you’d need two.  
– You know I can’t ask them for too much money. –  
– Let’s say you don’t _want_ to ask for it because you can steal from me. –  
The harsh tone came back and he couldn’t do anything to stop it, like a man watching helplessly an avalanche falling all over him. Holly, on the defensive, straightened up her back.  
– Hey, quit it now, you’re blowing this entire thing up. I’m not some kind of stranger. Trust me, I swear I’m giving them back to you. –  
Holly sighed; she had put too much effort in it to look credible.  
– The next week I’m posing for a friend of my mother’s. –  
She moved back on the sheets, tucking her hair behind her ears.  
– Whatever I get is yours. –  
Malik didn’t even bother to roll his eyes upwards, too busy dealing with the bedcover’s creases. She could have promised him Heaven, but you can’t hold words in your fist; bank notes, instead, you can. Malik reached out and grabbed the sheet, waiting for Holly to follow.  
– We’ll see. –  
He said, with a robotic tone of voice and without wasting extra time on it, not even wanting to give her a slice of the apple of trust that she had let rot. Holly’s stare became uglier as she took the sheet with a rude gesture that belonged to an offended fifteen-year old.  
– Sure, you could show some cooperation. –  
They brought the sheet back upwards, until it reached the pillows, and the young man let out a cynical laugh.  
– You’re right, I should stop complaining, I’m a real asshole. –  
– Quit that. –  
Malik didn’t accept the advice happily.  
– But what are you doing with that money anyway? –  
He asked, furrowing his brow.  
– Your mom’s paying for your studies, your father’s paying for your car, you eat and sleep here most of the time… – Malik straightened up his back, put his hands on his hips and turned into a funambulist walking the rope of patience.  
– Are you stealing my money to pay for movie tickets and get pissed with your friends? –  
Holly batted her eyelashes and moved back her neck like a flamingo, burned by those accusations: they were dangerously close to the truth after all.  
– Just so you know, I have my own money saved up! –  
– And then use it, for God’s sake! –  
Malik screamed, giving up on his resolution of being zen-like about this. Holly took the hit, but then her survival instinct took over and she screamed after him in self-defense.  
– I already apologized! –  
And then, there was silence. That conversation wasn’t leading anywhere: it wasn’t just a dead-end street, but rather a dog barking to his reflection in a mirror. Malik shook his head and went for the foot of the bed. He raised upwards the last of the blankets and he waited for Holly to do the same. She looked at him bothered, a certain condescending manner printed on her face with acid, and it was only making Malik’s fingers feel like slapping her fucking little face and leave a sign of it. He couldn’t care less that she still was technically his girlfriend. He didn’t live in absolutes, but in circumstances; and there weren’t rules, only compromises.  
Suddenly, the unfilled desire to slap the damsel disappeared and in its place came the gastritis caused by knowing he couldn’t do it. And in between that knotted mess of _I would like to, I wouldn’t_ , Holly was still there, immovable: one half combative, one half defeated. From the window, you could hear the cars honking and the street-sellers chattering, while the coffee smell from the nearby Starbucks reminded everyone how that day had started off very badly. Finally, she moved and grabbed the blanket, dragging it upwards on the bed, her lips pressed. Malik followed her, and Kandinsky’s _Composition VIII_ printed on the cover laid down perfectly on the bed. The muffled sound of the hands reaching down into the creases took the place of their words.  
Then Holly was bold enough to break the silence.  
– I don’t like at all how things are going lately. –  
Malik was surprised; for the first time, he actually agreed with her.  
– I don’t, either. –  
The bed was made at that point; as far as their row, who knew.  
– Look at it, it’s not just my fault. –  
Holly went on, latching to that conversation like a dog who doesn’t want to let go of the bone. Malik raised his eyes to the sky, more tired than an athlete at the end of a triathlon run. He just wanted to take a shower and eat something, and instead he had to undergo the torture of having her tear his good mood from him, seeing how Holly was taking a shit on it after dumping it in the toilet.  
– No, of course. –  
Malik replied without paying too much attention to it. Holly didn’t let that go.  
– Why, do you think there’s nothing I don’t like about you? But how full of yourself can you be? You have faults, too, you know that? –  
She put her hands on her convex hips, looking Malik like a teacher about to question her chosen student. He shrugged, because he wasn’t ready to talk about that specific lesson, and he headed for the closet, turning his shoulders to her.  
– Come on, list them. –  
Malik replied with the only intent to keep her talking. His only interest right then was on the opposite side of the planet. Meanwhile, Holly started posing as if she was going to some audition.  
– You’re obsessive. –  
First arrow let loose. Well, it hadn’t hurt so much.  
Malik opened the drawer and asked himself, _am I obsessive?_ He looked at his socks and perfectly folded laundry, recognizing that everything was laid down in parallel lines and in decreasing shades of color. _Okay, fine, I might get obsessive over some things_ , he answered himself, figuring that it was a legitimate fault, after all.  
– If you’re talking about how neat I am, I can’t fault you. –  
Malik admitted candidly, as he picked his underwear for the day, but Holly didn’t appreciate his comment’s superficiality, and another clash of personalities began.  
– Quit with taking it lightly, Malik! Look at me when I’m talking to you! –  
Holly was screaming at this point, frustrated by the indifference that Malik was reserving for her. She thought she was some kind of Tibetan mastiff and he was treating her like some kind of lame runt from a dog shelter. She couldn’t handle the prospect of not coming first and, judging from Malik’s attitude, she was being left last. Sadly for her, Malik was like that – if he didn’t have any respect left to give, he couldn’t fake having it still.  
– You’re obsessive about people, too! Do you think that business with Joseph and Tyler is forgotten? I know that you keep on control me and it’s not acceptable! –  
Having chosen his underwear, Malik took it and slammed the drawer closed; Holly’s eyelids immediately shook in surprise. He looked at her, taking her apart with his stare.  
– Of course I’m keeping an eye on you. I don’t trust you. –  
Malik didn’t waste any more words and moved past the girl, heading for the bathroom. Holly went after him, screaming louder than before: she seemed like Carrie White having her first period.  
– You’re an asshole and a jerk, too! Keep an eye on your own life, not mine! I’m going out with whoever I want, whenever I want to! Is that clear? Are you listening to me, Malik? –  
Those screams felt like needles in his eardrums, and Malik had to resist the temptation to turn back to her and let her regret having ever been born just because he was almost at his destination. The young man slammed the bathroom door behind him, without worrying about how far Holly was from him, stalking him like an angry hunting dog going after his prey. She jumped in fear as the wooden door appeared in front of her nose with a dull thud. Then, a turn of the key in the lock put an end to any dialogue that might have been. Wounded in her pride once again, Holly started banging on the door, beside herself.  
– Fuck you, you’re an asshole! You’ll pay for this, understood? Are you listening to me?! Walk out if you dare! –  
Malik’s answer was turning on the stereo and turning on the volume so loud on Talk Talk’s _It’s My Life_ that it would cover the screams of that stubborn and angry carrion crow. It would be useless to explain that it just made her angrier, and as a reply, she kicked the door a couple of times and then left, looking for another outlet for her homicidal instincts. From the other side of the door, Malik put his face in between his hands: he had to put some effort in making sure that the rest of the day, just barely started, wasn’t as dirty with shit as this morning. He turned on the water under the shower, undressed and launched himself under the warm spray, which still failed to get through the shell of spite born out of his bones. He closed his eyes, placing a hand against the damp wall, lowering his head and letting the water fall over his nape, calming him down. He didn’t want to hear anything else anymore. Then he thought about a quicker way to accomplish it: he grabbed the hot water’s knob like he would have the neck of a hen and turned it towards the blue circle at once; the hot water turned into cold in a moment. He convinced himself that an icy shower would have helped to freeze the discomfort, leaving it in between the house’s walls, waiting for him to come back like a leftover from yesterday’s dinner. The problem was that those leftovers had been around for months: feeble, ugly and decomposed, by now they only smelled like mold.

 

– I’d rather have you stay in the office, really. –  
Lucy was halfway leaning on her desk, the other leg stretched out with her foot planted on the ground, and her hair tied in a ponytail falling over her neck. Michael reassured her with a smile.  
– I’m all right, I’m all right. It was just a very bad night. –  
Lucy’s lips thinned, stretched taut like dental floss.  
– It’s happening a bit too often. Why don’t you go see someone? –  
– I have a doctor’s appointment next week, we’ll see. –  
Lucy said nothing, waiting for the follow-up.  
– I already know what they’re going to tell me, anyway. It’s all _its_ fault. –  
Michael said, his hand leaning on the rotund curve of his belly, peacefully overweight.  
– You were doing fine this summer. –  
The woman said, remembering how many pounds her business partner had lost a few months ago.  
– Yeah, but it’s not quite enough. Grace says I should lose at least another twenty-two. –  
Michael’s eyes went wide, shocked by a vision that he has sent himself.  
– I can’t even picture myself weighing twenty-two pounds less. –  
Lucy smiled sharply, having a dig at him.  
– But I can. –  
Michael appreciated her tough support, but let the conversation die there. So, she moved away from the desk and grabbed a stack of paper from the table.  
– Regardless, you’re staying here. –  
She moved close to Michael, handing him the paperwork. He looked at her with transparent eyes that made him look a few years younger; a teenager’s soul in a body that was hobbling behind it.  
– There’s all this lovely paperwork to handle. No one is better equipped for it than you. –  
Lucy’s voice was gentle, but it was obvious that it wasn’t a request – rather, an order. Michael wasn’t going to dodge that bullet, and his bargaining skills wouldn’t have worked. He might have been twice as old as her, but she had twice his balls. His lips curved and he scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard on his cheeks.  
– I’d have gladly helped the boys out. –  
He took the papers, noticing how thick the stack was.  
– With Altair injured, on top of that… –  
Lucy took her opening and inserted herself into that hanging sentence like an intramuscular injection.  
– Altair is almost healed up. He’s working fine with a brace, and the stitches should be off next week. –  
Lucy smiled like a mall’s promoter.  
– He’s fine. –  
She added, so certain of it that Michael was out of objections. Sometimes this woman turned into his boss instead of being just his business partner.  
– I don’t want you to have another setback on the job. –  
Lucy crossed her arms on her chest and her back’s profile took an S-like shape.  
– You have to look after yourself. –  
Someone knocked on the office’s door, effectively ending that conversation.  
– Yeah? –  
Lucy asked, moving forward like a deer heading for a river. The door opened and Malik’s head, followed by the rest of his body, came into the room.  
– Hello. –  
Malik greeted the both of them with a nod. Michael smiled at him fully, the way you’d smile to your nephew, while Lucy smiled tiredly, waiting for the rest.  
– I wanted to ask who’s on shift today. Desmond told me yesterday that someone switched? –  
Malik remained a few steps from them, with a hand resting along his hip and the other massaging the opposite shoulder. Concise as always, Lucy replied.  
– Today it’s you and Rebecca in the kitchen. Altair and Shaun are manning the counter and the check out. At rush hour, I’m coming down to help you out. –  
Malik nodded in satisfaction, even if he couldn’t care less.  
– Mike, how are you? –  
Malik asked, his hand already on the door’s handle. About _that_ , he did give a damn.  
– I’m fine, thank you. Nothing to worry about, don’t get worried. –  
Malik nodded. Growing fond of that man was as natural as wolfing down an entire pack of Oreo when you’re alone in the house. The cook closed the door and went to change. He looked at his cellphone; it was three minutes past ten AM and no text. When he left the bathroom that morning, Holly had already left. That was understandable. What was less understandable was how his friends kept on telling him that it was normal for a couple to go through ups and downs, pushing and pulling, the _odi et amos_ and the whole crap-load of bullshit that came with it. Fine, if was true that in some cases the conflicts helped to keep a relationship zingy, now it had gone straight to spicy, but the kind of that makes the food impossible to eat. And it wasn’t a thing that had just lasted a few weeks – it had for months. If he thought about their first meeting, he couldn’t believe it was the same girl. Who knew if Holly felt the same, thinking about him. Malik put on apron and cap and left the changing room, heading for the kitchen. Before that, though, he had to empty his bladder, so he went for the bathroom instead, opened the door and went straight inside, but what he found in front of him was entirely unexpected and he stopped at once, quicker than if he had been pierced through with an arrow. Altair had his back to him, standing, with his legs opened wide in front of the toilet in which he was pissing. Malik froze and went back through the happenings of the last few seconds. The light in the bathroom turned off under the door, the absence of any noise from inside, no lock at all when he opened the door. Nothing. No, it couldn’t be his fault. It was obviously on the idiot standing in front of him, Altair, who was currently turning his face to try and take a glimpse of who was standing behind him.  
– Hey, Malik. –  
He greeted, fresh as a rose at dawn and unflappable like a patient under anesthesia; it seemed like he couldn’t care less that he was standing with his dripping dick in between his fingers as if he was a postman and that was the package he was about to deliver. If anything, Altair’s arm and back were positioned in a way that hid the details and Malik was spared further embarrassment. Malik felt the bite of turmoil go down on his stomach, closing it at once.  
– What the fuck … –  
He muttered with resentment, so darkly that it made a Goya painting look idyllic. Malik slammed the door closed behind him; he didn’t feel like pissing at all anymore at this point. The need had gone away as the certainty that the day was still salvageable. He took shelter in the kitchen and forced himself to concentrate on preparing the menu for the day. He grabbed onions, garlic and spices and started cutting, trying to avoid getting caught in hysteria. He didn’t know what was worse: if he should wallow in his rage-filled thoughts about Holly, or think back on the recent episode starring Altair’s dick.  
Malik was so concentrated cutting vegetal bulbs that he didn’t even notice his colleague coming inside the kitchen and stopping three feet from him, with his elbows on the counter as he looked at Malik’s skills in chopping onions. Silently, he was waiting for Malik to notice him, or that he’d kill him, maybe. The cook’s senses suggested him to raise his eyes: he started to feel a certain distress creeping up on his skin, like a cutaneous mycosis, and he convinced himself to take a look around himself, immediately noticing the reason he was bothered. Malik stopped the blade and the two of them just looked at each other in silence. There was a certain embarrassment to do away with. Altair was leaning with his chin on his left hand, the one with the finger wrapped in the brace, and he was looking at Malik with an inert but curious expression on his face; Malik, instead, was looking at him the way you’d look at someone who, in a metro wagon, sticks his finger inside his nose the way you only do when you’re alone in the house in front of your computer. This time, the kitchen was free of the burbling of soups boiling or of the greens sizzling to hide the silence between them.  
So Malik spoke first, because he did like silence, but he didn’t like staring, not at all.  
– Do you ever use the key, when you’re in the bathroom? –  
Malik asked with a huff. Altair didn’t seem to be following.  
– You mean, are you talking about before? –  
Altair asked, not sounding rhetorical at all. Malik convinced himself that the man had to be a bona fide idiot.  
– Maybe you should use it, when you’re taking a piss. –  
Malik grabbed a new knife from the drawer, put the onion aside and started chopping garlic. He couldn’t stand that side of Altair’s: he lived as if people had to adapt to him and not the contrary.  
– Maybe you should knock before coming in. –  
Altair replied, spitting on his good manners. Malik had met smartass people in his life, but Altair was definitely changing the bar. Malik gave him an hostile stare, but Altair was unchanging; he just stared at him with his amber eyes in which he could see shining all the hateful and showed-off sureness that killed in Malik any desire for compromise. You couldn’t talk with Altair, just give him a few slaps. But Malik felt like he had exhausted his force to fight for the day: that morning, the exchange with Holly had exhausted him to the point that he was about to give up completely and he had barely been awake for four hours. Holly had a rare talent to suck fiber and vitality away from him, and she wasn’t even sucking him off. So, Malik just dropped it. He turned his attention back to the garlic and started cutting it all over again, huffing again, feeling like he really wanted to be somewhere else right now. Altair didn’t deserve his efforts.  
– Hey, it’s not as if it’s a problem. We’re both guys. –  
Altair intervened, feeling how the cook wasn’t up to go ahead with that conversation. He shrugged to do away with the conflict and to pass towards Malik his internal peace.  
– And we know each other. We work together. –  
He added, surely breaching the number of usual words that he pronounced in one entire day. _No, we don’t know each other_ , Malik thought – at that point, he was slaughtering the poor piece of garlic just so that he didn’t turn the knife on Altair. What his colleague was saying, and how he was saying it, was revealing just how superficial he was, and on top of that, a certain childish trust that’s typical of an adolescence that was never fully concluded, that builds its relationships on _well_ and _more or less_. Something that was making his skin crawl. The logic in that reasoning was finding his visual match in a piece of gruyere: it was full of holes. Malik knew also the guy manning the check at the bar under his apartment, but sure as hell he wouldn’t have showed the guy his dick just because.  
– And anyway… –  
Altair kept on. He was probably under the effect of some kind of anti-depressant, seeing how he was being unnaturally loquacious. But he left the sentence hanging there, as if someone paused him with a remote. Maybe the drug’s effect had worn off at once. Malik’s eyebrows bent downwards, giving Altair the benefit of the doubt; as in, the doubt that he might be narcoleptic. But before Malik’s hypothesis could find a confirmation, a saving external agent suddenly bursting into the Wes Anderson-like microcosm that was taking hold of the kitchen.  
– Hey guys, sorry for being late. –  
Rebecca came inside the kitchen, her usual tuffs of hair coming out of the cap’s hem. Altair and Malik looked at her both: Malik with gratitude, Altair just with laziness. Rebecca only needed a glance to smell the hostility in between them, and she made the mistake of asking.  
– Did I interrupt something? –  
Rebecca’s hands latched to a bowl full of tomatoes.  
– No. –  
Malik replied curtly, slicing at Altair with his glance.  
– Only silence. –  
With that caustic comment, Malik leaned back down on the garlic – which was spared further suffering – and moved on to the greens to chop. His colleagues had learned to understand Malik’s digs, and had commonly established that the best attack was defense. So, Rebecca turned her back on him and started taking out the other greens they should wash, whistling to pass the time. Whatever happened in between Malik and Altair, it was going to stay between them.  
Altair, indeed, since he was out of any communicative exchange, lost all interest in staying in the kitchen. He drummed his fingers on the counter and left, passing near Rebecca and patting her on the shoulder, to wish her a good time at work. Rebecca smiled back at him and for the remaining of the time that she spent in the kitchen, working with the other cook, just one thing was clear to her: Malik was fucking pissed off.

 

Two ratatouille casseroles, three of potatoes, four trays of mixed salad, two of stew, three rounds of falafel and two of grilled greens: all this work couldn’t distract Malik. His thoughts had managed to win over the pots and pans, to elbow their way through the ingredients, and worm their way in the cooking times. It was past five PM and his shift was almost over. Usually at that point he’d have breathed in relief: he’d have gone home, taken a shower, put some music on in the living room and cook something calmly for himself… and Holly. But the girl was turning into some kind of unknown variable in his life, to the point that he didn’t really care about her that much anymore. He always was a very practical person and he had this tendency to keep far from him the things that didn’t make him feel good or didn’t bring him any advantage. So, the question raised itself: _what am I doing?_  
– Malik. –  
It was the soft and gentle tone of Michael’s voice, and Malik recognized it before they looked at each other.  
– Hey, Mike. Tell me. –  
Michael was leaning inside the kitchen, a hand on the saloon-like semi-open door, halfway inside the room. He had a certain constipated expression to his face and Malik thought that maybe he wasn’t feeling well again. His boss motioned for him to come closer and he didn’t need to be told twice. Michael put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and invited him out, turning him towards the counter. Malik smelled trouble.  
– Someone’s looking for you. –  
Michael whispered in his ear, sounding as if he was expecting an immediate catastrophe. A shudder ran through Malik’s vertebrae and his suspicions were confirmed in a short while: behind the counter, glancing in between the amount of people in the shop, he noticed Holly’s mane of hair. She was standing with crossed arms in a corner, the face of someone who’s pissed off because they’ve been denied the student discount in the cinema. Holly was glancing at the counter with her predatory eyes, and noticed the young man soon enough. She went on her tiptoes and spoke.  
– Malik! Get over here! –  
Her tone was loud, intrusive like a suppository, and it left Malik still as stone. Why the fuck was that insane woman screaming doing inside the shop? It wasn’t enough to drop here when he was working, now she also had to embarrass him in front of his co-workers and clients? Altair, who was behind the counter with Shaun, glanced quickly at the girl whose noisy presence certainly was noticeable to both ears and eyes. Malik could feel the weight of the stares and judgment on his skin. Holly skipped the queue and brutally made his way in between the other clients, stepping back from civilization’s duties.  
– Now! –  
She screamed again, the crowd around her looking at her with curiosity first and then impatience. If Holly wanted to destroy their relationship fine, all right, but she didn’t need to drag his job into that operation, as well. Shaun stopped as he served his clients, unable to ignore the distractions anymore, and the same happened to a few of the clients, irked because of Holly’s arrogance and the racket she was making. Malik moved at once to avoid damaging things beyond repair. Altair moved, letting him pass, and glanced at Shaun to suggest him to go back to work; Michael moved back behind the counter, wearing apron and cap, ready to help out with the clients.  
– So, who’s next? –  
Michael said, with a smile that took up his entire face, trying to grab back the attention of the clients and their good mood. Malik, meanwhile, had moved in front of the counter and grabbed Holly’s arm without any gentleness to it. He dragged her towards the exit and just before leaving the shop his eyes met Lucy’s – she was sitting behind the check-out like Athena on her throne. Lucy, his boss, was looking at him with a face sculpted in stone and incomprehensible expression, but Malik interpreted that muscular immobility as a reprimand. Once he was out, Malik pushed Holly towards the end of the sidewalk, leaving her with her back to the wall. His hands itched with the desire to punch her in the face until it was swollen.  
– Have you lost your mind? –  
The cook burst, trying to keep his screaming to a minimum.  
– What’s your genius plan here? Getting me fired? What the fuck is wrong with you?! –  
Malik was moving his weight from a foot to the other, unable to stop his nervousness. He didn’t understand what was going on and he didn’t find it fair, either, but Holly was good enough to worm her way through that sliver of uncertainty.  
– We need to talk. –  
Holly replied, her tone dry; she sounded like a completely different person in comparison to the one who had been screaming for the entire world to hear how angry she was a short while ago.  
– You want to talk now? –  
– We need to find a solution, Malik.–  
Holly crossed her arms over her chest again, pretending to look like a mature woman who tries to find a rational solution to an emotional problem; but that was just a picture, because Holly was a childish insane person and Malik didn’t recognize anything in her anymore that justified his affection for her.  
– I already have the solution. –  
Malik said, the edge in his voice cutting as sharp as his kitchen knives. He turned his back to her as if she was invisible and went back inside. With a foot already inside the shop, he pointed at her.  
– Wait for me here. –  
Holly stayed there, unmoving, breathing noiselessly. She stayed there waiting for him, her noise turned towards the dark sky, probably already knowing what she’d find at the end of that run.

 

The evening kept on crashing in a free fall, and Malik couldn’t still see the ground on which he was going to crash. He was staring at the lamplight on his nightstand thinking that its warmth was clashing terribly with Holly’s sharp voice. Malik was already under the covers, his naked back against the pillow, with Nietzche’s _On the Genealogy of Morality_ within his reach, just because in these last weeks he had stopped for a while thinking about how homicide could be possibly legitimate. But he knew he wouldn’t have time for reading: Holly kept on throwing up words at him, kicking, putting dots on the is, complaining. At the beginning, he just watched the scene without putting up any opposition, letting himself getting invested as he would have for a Tanztheater performance. Holly seemed angry in the beginning, talking about money, her parents, the deny of trust; the script never changed and the dramaturgy in it was barely average. He could feel the synergy between them fading away, unraveling like wool in water.  
Then Holly moved from angry to seducing: it was clear that she was running out of ideas, as clear as the paleness on her legs that she was stretching towards him. Her breast touched his shoulder, she whispered apologies in his ear, drawing his pecs with the tip of a nail. But for Malik, by now, Holly was a siren who lost her charm, and what would have excited him once didn’t even touch him now: there was no trembling going on inside his trousers. At that point Holly was saddened and her enthusiasm faded away, like a child’s game that’s not funny anymore: there was some kind of tenderness in her clumsy attempt to convince him that they’d have solved everything if she gave him a ride. Too bad that right then Malik would have picked Nietzsche over a good old sixty-nine. So he didn’t feel guilty when Holly started crying, holding her own waist with her arms to make her breasts look bigger; even worse than a high schooler who doesn’t know what to come up with anymore to get her boyfriend’s dick up.  
Malik didn’t want her, and he didn’t know how to tell her that. Being kind was a battle. He ran a hand through Holly’s hair with a sigh full of pity – to himself, not to her. He knew that nothing was going to cheer him up that evening; he could only hope to open his eyes and find himself in another life. Malik through about what he could tell her to keep her in a good mood, but he couldn’t come up with anything. It was as if he didn’t know her anymore. It was partially true and partially an exaggeration to say that he hated her; the truth was that he felt hurt, and had been for a long time. He didn’t know when it had started, but a good clue was that at some point, waking up in the morning, seeing Holly asleep next to him hadn’t made him feel lucky.  
Malik just gave up on it and left Holly to handle her own weaknesses. She probably should realize that in order to be desirable you need to be spontaneous, not just having a pretty face and a firm ass. He went to the bathroom, turned the key in the lock and gave his cervix a massage. From the opened window, the sounds of the night came in, along with the post-dinner smells. He let his exhausted head fall back, looking at the ceiling and thinking about decomposition.  
It wasn’t Nietzsche’s influence, just the analysis of a relationship’s funeral: Holly’s magic that had enchanted him once upon a time now seemed diluted away like watercolors under the rain. It felt unfair, because he _did_ want it. He felt like he deserved comfort, but not from her.  
Malik closed the window, beginning to kick Holly out of his thoughts; anyway, she couldn’t be the one to jump-start his imagination right now. At the point when even sex was hard, it was granted that their relationship wasn’t salvageable anymore. When both affection and seduction are lost in insults and shrugs, what was left was only wanting a solitary, brutal and rough jerk-off to have immediate satisfaction. Malik put a palm on the sink, letting his other hand slip inside his trousers and inside his underwear, like a drop of water on his skin. He was surprised when his friend downstairs reacted at the touch of his fingers like the tickled sole of a foot, which Holly couldn’t accomplish even putting effort into it. It was the confirmation that he _did_ want sex, just not with her. Malik okayed himself to proceed and bent over with his back, letting out a sigh that wanted to leave behind the rest of the day. He found himself bent in a ninety-degree position on the sink, breathing like a thirteen year-old at his first self-driven erotic experience. He thought that his last memories of sane, nice sex were far and faded, at least of the sex that when you’re done makes you feel like the world is still a good place to live in. He had felt like that with Holly, once, but it was such a far point in the timeline that it wasn’t important anymore. Her body, her face, her breasts, her legs, her damp fruit… Malik wasn’t feeling the need to bring any of those images to mind while his hand ran, fluid, around his dick, already swollen with great expectations. Not thinking about anything at all was exciting enough, and finally tasting that free pleasure was something he had missed a lot more than eight straight hours of sleep.  
The most amusing part of it all was that anyone would have thought him completely mad in that moment: locking himself in the bathroom jacking off like some kind of prisoner in an isolation cell when a beautiful woman – his girlfriend – was lying on his bed in tears. It was an image that smelled rotten, but Malik was adjusted to sail in murky waters and those dirty waters of dissent didn’t scare him. The young man’s chest was stretched out, following his breathing that was rising quickly in his lungs, while Holly’s sobbing from the bedroom tried to latch to his conscience like ticks on a dog. Malik wasn’t feeling ashamed of finding that contrast as cruel as it was perverse: she was crying, he was enjoying himself. The wheel spins, karma hits, the chickens coming back to roost, and all that bullshit. His back arched as if during a pilates lesson, and his head sinking down until his chin brushed against his chest. The grip around the cold ceramic of the sink, the need to just blow up and fuck decency, wetness increasing in between the cotton of his underwear and the roughness of his hand… everything smelled like nostalgia in that moment.  
He closed his eyes and for a bit he held his breath, playing with his fingers and stimulating his wrist for a little, as much as he needed to be free from the slavery of deprivation. The peak was intense and shocking, as he barely could remember it being. He was good at locking down his teeth and lips at the right time, so that his wheeze of well-earned bliss turned into an ecstatic sigh. He hated doing things slowly, and sex without noise was like a hug without touch, but he had to, and it was a prize torn away from caution. His back trembled, and when a small opening formed in between his lips he let himself succumb to a liberating sigh. He couldn’t care less about the mess he might have left behind as the conclusion of that self-celebration. A hungry orgasm, even if in chains, was always an orgasm; and that evening, it surely would have turned out to be the best _goodnight_. Malik opened slowly the eyes that he had kept closed, eyelids pressed together like two shutters. In front of him, there was just the cream-white of the sink, and a few drops of water scattered over its curved borders, that hadn’t still evaporated. On his naked skin, he could feel warmth holding him, and inside his bowels he could feel the rebirth of senses and the revenge of his self-esteem.  
In that small temporal frame, he had felt free and pure, like a newborn crying for the first time. He let the grip go around his now spent glory, and he remained there, hanging to the dejection of an emotion already disappearing. Malik walked out of his dream and back into reality, bit by bit: the rumbling sound of the motorcycles in the street, the too-loud volume of a rude neighbor’s television, the laughter of the teenagers coming back from the movies; and then, even Holly’s sobs, stubborn and inconsolable, reminding him, with all respect, that he was being a real dick about it. He pulled his hand out of his trousers and left it hanging on the sink’s edge, wet and heroic like a relay swimmer coming out of the water. He accepted with calm resignation that yes, he was a real dick, and let Holly’s crying lull him: a woman already far from his body and his heart, that at this point could have been referred to as _someone I used to know_. Feeling satiated from his brutal conquest, he stayed there for a bit longer, his nostrils filling with a new smell, pungent but balm-like at the same time: indifference.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like, I’d be really happy to know what you think in the comment section, and if you want to follow me here’s my tumblr where I will publish updates and fanfic related stuff.
> 
> https://almawardy.tumblr.com/
> 
> English translation is by Janie here on AO3!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine

_October, 2016.  
New York City._

Altair’s wound, in the middle of his thumb and index, was shaped like a half-moon. Nine stitches had joined forming a thick, pink scar, that looked even more evident against the skin’s olive hue. If you looked at it from a specific angle, it would remind of a smile’s shape. Desmond, who was a calm and witty person in the absence of blood and torn-open fingers, was looking at it in fascination; Malik, instead, wasn’t that fazed.  
– Does it hurt? –  
Asked Desmond, cautiously touching the scar with a finger. Altair shook his head.  
– Well, it’s surely huge… –  
The younger man added, placing a hand on the counter. A cold light reaching their waists was trickling in from the shutter, only halfway opened.  
– It could have been worse. –  
Said Malik in a neutral tone, one of those set phrases that mean nothing but are only useful to save appearances.  
– Hm. –  
Altair answered, keeping his eyes on the wound, whose stitches had now come off. The scarring process had still a long way to go, until that pink thread turned into a tiny, pale strip.  
– Are you still using the brace, right? –  
Desmond asked for confirmation. Altair nodded.  
– I have to, at work. –  
The shutter creaked as it went up and it gave Malik an excuse to go to the kitchen and do his duty to the end. The two cousins stayed behind the counter, putting back in place the containers with the previous day’s leftovers, ready to fill them with the day’s fresh food. Altair slipped the brace on and grabbed the couscous tray, still full for one third. Lucy came in, the keys giving access to the shop twirling around the index finger. She smiled quickly at her employees and headed for the office, closing the door: the usual morning greetings. Desmond, who had followed her with his eyes with a certain insistence that anyone would have found suspicious, grabbed the rice container; he started moving its content into the small aluminum containers where the leftovers were supposed to go, knowing that he’d have two guaranteed meals taking only his share. Until Lucy was in charge of the shop, no food was going to waste.  
– Hey, Altair… –  
The younger cousin started, the spoon he was handling stopping mid-air. Altair grunted, which was a way to tell him to go on, while he tried to get rid of the greens stuck to the steel sides of the container.  
– Can I ask some advice? –  
Desmond tried to sound as natural as possible as he spoke.  
– Okay, shoot. –  
Altair said, still not giving him his full attention. Desmond let the spoon finish its movement and went back to pouring rice.  
– Well, we could say that… –  
Desmond stalled; he seemed a young explorer standing at a fork in the road, not knowing whether to go left or right, or whether to go back.  
– It’s about women. –  
He said all at once, and he regretted it the moment it happened. But Altair started paying attention, instead: Desmond had made him curious.  
– As in? –  
Altair asked without hurry, letting Desmond find the time to think on it.  
– As in… –  
Desmond let that last word trail off, like a glitch coming from a system error. He could do it.  
– I’d need some pointers. –  
Desmond was finally free of that load like a constipated man who could finally take a dump after a week. He said it; he admitted it; it was done. Meanwhile, after he was done with the couscous, Altair put the container back in its place and moved on to the potatoes.  
– Is there anyone you like? –  
Altair asked, hitting straight like a right hook to the jaw. Desmond, who was already sailing in the turbulent waters of uncertainty, found himself stranded on the rocks at that question. He wanted to confide himself but he also didn’t, like a twelve-year-old who feels is too old to ask his mother for help after pissing his pants. He turned towards Altair and a few grains of rice fell on the counter.  
– No, no one specifically. Why? –  
Desmond was such a bad liar that Altair didn’t buy it for a moment; it was clear he wasn’t going to play along with that charade.  
– Did you ever go out with her? –  
Altair answered, again, with another question, ignoring his cousin’s evasive lies. Desmond thought about it carefully; he couldn’t assume he would obtain any results if he didn’t agree on at least showing some of his cards. He glanced at the rice and thought about how to express himself best, while his body hunched on itself.  
– No. –  
Desmond cut the answer short, and took off his mask. He left the spoon in the now empty container, turned completely towards Altair, a hand on his hip, trying to act like a grown-up.  
– How do I talk to her? –  
He asked, waving a white flag. Altair recognized in his voice a certain weakness that made him stop working at all. They were looking at each other now: Desmond was depending on Altair’s response, as if he was waiting for an oracle, while Altair was ready to give it already; that said, he feared that the _open your mouth and talk to her_ that he was thinking of would have disappointed Desmond’s high expectations. Altair never was the kind of person who always had an answer for everything; he experimented around and if it went fine, he kept on doing it. Before any of them could talk, the kitchen’s door opened and Malik walked out of it with a large container full of couscous, grilled chicken and various greens. With a stride and bearing that clashed completely with the concept of graceful, Malik sneaked inside the empty space between his two co-workers. Both Desmond and Altair were distracted, but Altair caught his chance and jumped into a dangerous proposal.  
– Maybe you could ask Malik for advice, too. –  
On the spot, the cook seemed indifferent at the mention of his name, and Altair was looking at him, waiting for Malik to delight them with one of his jabs or, in the best of chances, playing along. After placing the food in its rightful place, Malik leaned back up and his eyes met by chance, and just for a moment, Altair’s: the time to understand that the one he was supposed to talk to was Desmond, not the verbally constipated mysterious person. Malik, then, moved his stare to Desmond, without hiding the boredom that transpired from the curve of his eyebrows. Desmond, who understood that he wasn’t going to get any help on neither front, tried to look like someone with the sureness coming with having control of a situation.  
– It’s that, there’s a girl I would like to- –  
– Don’t bother. –  
Two grunted words, in a rough tone, like two well-placed gunshots: one hit Desmond in the head and the other in the heart. Malik left like that, a body language screaming his aversion to that specific conversation, while the victim was wheezing as he bled, without even understanding why he was shot. Desmond didn’t know how to react; he could only glance at Altair, looking for help in figuring out what just happened, but Altair shook his head, moving closer and speaking to him with a low voice, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear. He reassured him, he distracted him, joking around, and then encouraged him; just to make sure he’d forget the rudeness of a colleague who knew how to be the devil in the flesh when he wanted to.  
That said, for Altair, Malik was a fascinating evil, with his beautiful dark eyes, black as the venom he liked to spit over other people. That savage cook was piquing his interest like a bottomless pit that makes you want to jump in while you stare down at it, even if you know that in the end you’ll meet Death’s embrace. But never mind the itch below his belt, Altair also was a very good observer: in the last few weeks he had noticed that there was always a shadow on Malik’s face. Putting together the few clues he had, he could imagine that he was having personal issues. He remembered very well how Malik and Holly had looked at each other leaving the shop a few days before: it was a couple’s bereavement made flesh.  
Altair spent half of the day at the check-out; the left side of his brain was focusing on the receipts and the right one elaborating way less linear thoughts, which all ended up coming back to the rude cook and that at the end brought him to the same conclusion he had been reaching for a couple of months by now: Malik was an interesting man. There was something in him that prickled at his sleep during the night, something that made Altair looked his way and lose time, something that turned him reckless and sometimes brazen. He recognized his colleague’s rude side, and sometimes he had been burned by it, too, but Malik remained a man dressed in mystery. For someone like Altair, someone who wasn’t adjusted to being surprised, Malik looked like the most seducing of gambles.  
Then Altair switched and moved behind the counter, with Shaun, where he could serve and put together the courses without too much trouble thanks to the brace. He only crossed Malik another couple of times through that day, but not even for the time it’d have taken to say they breathed the same oxygen. Malik was still wearing the furious dog mask and one could read a certain nervous hurry in the way he moved and acted, and also, something had obviously crawled up his ass and died there. Sometimes Altair shamelessly pictured putting his hand over his colleague’s, and those hands would be burning hot thanks to his utter lack of quiet. Others times, he let those fantasies come to life in his crotch, participating to his goodnight rituals. And for a not little number of times, Altair had fallen asleep rocked by fantasies that pictured Malik’s body under his, Malik’s knees around his hips, Malik’s hands on his back, Malik’s mouth caressing his skin. 

 

The evening arrived quickly, same as that city’s inhabitants, finding a mirror for itself in the puddles that a thick fall rain had drawn on the sidewalks. It was almost closing time and from the outside you could smell wet hoodies and damp grass. Lucy left the office and moved behind the counter, her eyes never leaving a piece of paper where she was writing a first draft of next week’s shifts. There wasn’t a client in the shop. The smokes from the kitchen were being sucked back in by the kitchen hood; the stove was being turned off, exhausted; Malik and Desmond were cleaning the counters and starting the dishwasher; all in all, the end of another day.  
– Please, come here for a moment, all of you. –  
Lucy had stood up, like a prairie dog leaning towards the horizon. She checked her wristwatch, making sure it matched the one hanging on the wall. It was just a minute to eleven PM. The woman went to the entrance and took the keys from her pocket. She closed the door and closed the shutter, not all the way but enough to suggest that the place was closed. For last, Lucy turned off the lights on the side and then joined her employees, making them regroup around the still warm kitchen. Shaun, Malik, Altair and Desmond were making an almost perfect circle around their boss. Shaun was checking his Whatsapp notifications, moving his glasses back up, Malik was drying his hands with a rag, Desmond was getting distracted by the dishwasher’s sounds and Altair was just staring at nothing, bored like a high school student who has a class off in the middle of the day. As far as Rebecca, who was missing, it was her free day.  
– Okay guys, listen to me. –  
Lucy raised her eyes from the piece of paper, stained in ink.  
– I’ll try to not beat around the bush here… –  
At that opening, everyone associated to it a personal and impending catastrophe: Shaun thought that Lucy was starting to cut down on the personnel, while Desmond did better than that and thought she was about to fire him, personally, and that was believable since he had more experience as a barista than as kitchen help. Malik figured that Lucy wanted to tire them out doubling their shifts or with overtime; Altair, who was a pragmatic guy instead, didn’t let his imagination speed up his heartbeat.  
– Michael is sick. –  
Said Lucy at once. Silence fell in the room.  
– Sick, how? –  
Desmond asked before anyone else, substituting the tragedy he had imagined with an even worse one. Malik put the rag on the counter and started paying serious attention: he didn’t like that opening.  
– It’s not bad, and most important of all, it’s treatable. –  
Lucy kept on, with the sureness of someone who has rehearsed the speech before.  
– He has cancer. –  
Shaun’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open.  
– Bloody fucking hell. –  
The young man with spectacles opened his mouth wide, his jaw incredulously moving downwards.  
– British finesse. –  
Desmond commented, sending Shaun a reproaching glance, crossing his arms over his chest. Shaun just stared back at him, putting on the dress of a snobby nostalgic.  
– And that’s the colonies’ insolence. –  
Replied Shaun, theatrically. Those two never liked each other.  
– What, for real? –  
Desmond’s arms uncrossed and he took a step towards the Englishman, the light of challenge in his eyes. Altair put an arm forward and stopped him, Lucy rolled her eyes and Malik castrated them with a neat:  
– Shut up. –  
They weren’t the protagonists in that conversation. They could have taken this back up in the changing room until they punched themselves silly, if it was what they wanted. Desmond followed his colleagues’ physical and verbal advice and adapt himself to the situation, without sparing the Englishman a glance that could have been easily translated in: _dickhead_. Or something of the kind, according to how you interpreted it. Shaun clicked his tongue, disapproving, as if he wanted to put in the corner a particularly fastidious Chihuahua. He did have a certain talent in making other people hate him.  
– But, is he in the hospital? –  
Malik asked, bringing the interest back to the original topic. Lucy shook her head negatively and raised a hand to reassure the others.  
– Michael is at home. He’s fine, all things considered. –  
Lucy sighed and drew a half-circle with her eyes looking at her employees, one by one: she had to be the lighthouse in the middle of the storm.  
– It was confirmed a few days ago, after a few tests. They said it’s benign, for now, but they’re considering how to go about it. –  
Altair lowered the arm that had stopped Desmond before; it was obvious he was thinking about Michael again, and he was calm. That said, that newfound serenity didn’t help in making the news less bitter. Michael wasn’t just their boss, but he also was a kind soul always ready to listen and make everyone in their team laugh. He was a good man, and not just talented.  
If Lucy was the brain at _Half Moon Kebab_ , Michael was the heart.  
– He’ll be fine and back to work soon, stay calm. –  
Said Lucy, in an entirely too formal attempt to transmit some comfort.  
– But… –  
The woman kept on, set on making the head win over feelings.  
– This will bring a few complications. –  
The other men’s attention focused on her when Lucy showed them the piece of paper that she had shielded until that moment. Everyone looked at it, lowering their heads like cats on their kibble.  
– I’ll be alone in the office work and handling suppliers. Which is why I wanted to ask Rebecca for some help in administration. She’s smart and she’s good at math, so her hours will be half in the kitchen and half in the office with me. –  
Lucy stopped talking and made sure everyone else was following, then she started talking again.  
– Now, the main problem is that Desmond won’t be here next week because he asked those days off a while ago. –  
Desmond looked up at her, feeling immediately guilty.  
– If you need me here I can postpone, I’ll just do things differently. –  
But Desmond’s proposal didn’t match Lucy’s ethics; she was almost offended in her reaction.  
– That’s not even up for questioning. You asked for them and I said yes, accidents are my problem to deal with. –  
Malik added a mark to Lucy’s good tally; she always managed to gain esteem points for her work ethic. Desmond, seeing how Lucy had dressed her words in steel, opted to not pursue the topic any further. Shaun massaged his short beard and Altair lowered his head, looking at his feet.  
– That said. –  
The bionic blonde started again.  
– I will have to ask Malik, Altair and Shaun to put some extra effort in here for a few more days. –  
For the first time, Lucy’s tone mellowed.  
– Seeing that Desmond’s hours have to be covered, and half of Rebecca’s, you will have slightly longer shifts. –  
Lucy apologized with her eyes, but the facts didn’t change.  
– I was thinking about double shifts during the day, which might help you since you would have a few free hours. But this is something I want to discuss with each of you, in private, starting from tomorrow. –  
Altair let out the kind of weary sigh reserved for the end of the day. Too many news at the same time that evening, and he never was much into multitasking. At that point he just wanted to leave and fill his lungs with cold and stinging air, so that he could anesthetize every mental contraction. He raised his stare from his shoes and found Malik on the opposite side of the straight line of his stare. The cook had crossed arms and his lips were pressed together, like an airport inspector; from his petroleum-colored eyes, it was easy to guess that something else was occupying his thoughts, something that wasn’t related to his work and didn’t belong to that small cut of space and time. In any case, Malik was hardly the only one. Altair’s curiosity started prickling again, and his back felt like it was being scratched; the pins and needles of waiting was trickling over his skin as he heard Lucy’s last words trail away and lose shape inside his ears. Like tinnitus that doesn’t leave you alone, Altair was distracted from how constantly he was thinking of a risky proposal, which he would only bring to completion with a lot of guts. But if there was something he didn’t lack for, that was guts, and so that was why it only took him a few minutes to lock his thoughts inside a shell and to decide to, eventually, give into that dangerous whim. Resolved in his intents and finding motivation in the eventual reward he would get, Altair only breathed through his nose so he could preserve inside his mouth the taste of the trial he was about to embark on.

 

It was a quarter past eleven and Shaun was putting on his helmet as he sat on his motorcycle, beautiful like a twenty-year old in a miniskirt. The shutter had just concluded its creaking goodbye and Lucy was bending down, turning the key. The moon was full and large, luminous as a star, but its opalescent rays were being brutally violated by the LEDs on shop signs and skyscrapers. Malik was leaning against the wall, not far from the shop, with his hands in his pockets and not feeling like going back home at all. Desmond had run away immediately, after exchanging a fist bump with his cousin and saying goodbye to the others with a nod of the head –except Shaun, whom he had deliberately ignored. _We will go back to that discussion_ , Desmond had told Altair before the corners of his mouth curved upwards; then he pulled his hood on, shade immediately covering half of his face. Altair had nodded, not because of curiosity but because he sincerely and selflessly supported his younger cousin, who –too often– mixed up his discretion with emotive contraception. Sometimes he did like to know what went through his head, how he felt, or if he met anyone who could make his heartrate speed up. A curious situation, anyhow, because also Altair had had someone to think about for a while.  
Shaun turned on the motorcycle’s engine and left, bundled up in his jacket like an exaggerate burrito. Altair, who was wearing a pair of jeans and a hoodie with the sleeves turned upwards until his elbows, was standing next to Lucy, taking his leave. Malik thought it was ridiculous that with those temperatures Altair was more worried about hiding his head behind his hood rather than just cover his arms with the hoodie’s sleeves. He and Lucy exchanged a few words and for a moment they made quite an intimate picture, giving Malik the impression that he couldn’t cross the line around them. He placed a foot against the wall and wished again that he could just not go back home. Holly was home, and Holly was stress. From the madness of the previous weeks, they had moved to some kind of unnerving apathy that he couldn’t say was much better than their atomic rows. If it were for him, he’d have broken up with her already, but a thought kept on putting up a certain resistance: a woman like Holly, who wasn’t really adjusted to earn her victories, should have shown some courage and burn bridges of her own initiative. Malik’s patience was exhausted and he had lost his hopes; he wanted that story to be over, and he didn’t feel any embarrassment in admitting it. But what he wanted more was that the lady, so good with her mouth, found enough balls in her to recognize the inevitable and spare herself, and him, too, from that inhuman suffering. In short: he wanted her to leave him, not to leave her. As much as he knew Holly, this would have meant a remarkable demonstration of maturity; but if she actually showed a minimum of pride, Malik might have re-evaluated her and accorded her some lukewarm esteem, just before sealing her away in a small, secluded corner of his memories.  
– Lucy says hi. –  
That voice brought him back to the damp present and he realized that Altair was standing in front of him, hands in his pockets and that fucking hood still over his head. Malik turned, looking at the spot where those two had been talking until a few minutes before, and he could only see Lucy’s shadow turning the corner.  
– She noticed you were lost in your thoughts and she didn’t want to disturb you. –  
Altair added with his typical neutral tone. Malik’s eyes moved back on him and he let his musings on his sentimental life stay to the side for the moment. The shop was closed, the employees disappeared like water in the desert. Just the two of them, two small moles on a pale-skinned backside, remained exchanging mute thoughts. Altair looked at Malik like you would a thick menu when you just have ten dollars to spend on food: this would take cautiousness and wisdom. Altair had no problem staying there and staring at Malik in silence; to him, that was just another way to talk to people. But he knew that for Malik his stare would soon start to burn like the sun in August, having reached its zenith, without solar protection. Actually, he could already read the first signs of intolerance on him: in his fragmented gestures, in how his body was wavering, in the way his breaths trembled, and not because of the cold. Altair forced himself to not wait any further in that activity which admittedly had nothing _active_ to itself. He wanted to gently make his way through the cook’s thoughts, not to be rejected. Firm as a rock, but the tact belonging to winter frost Altair spoke, and he spoke frankly, voicing the thoughts he had throughout that long day.  
– It seems like you’re lost in thought to me, too. –  
Malik covered his face with an expressionless veil, but under that, that comment burned. Pressing against the irregular bricks in the wall, he moved his chest forward and let his nape fall backwards. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and held one in between his lips, tightly, taking the necessary time to answer.  
– How is your hand? –  
He asked without a real interest, just picking in between the possible topics of conversations. Anything to make sure Altair was far from his private sphere.  
– Fine. –  
The hooded young man replied, brief but honest. Altair was a cautious man, who revealed little of what he thought and showed even less of what he felt, but he was very far from naïve; he knew what Malik was doing, as in, pushing him away. But for now, Altair would just follow the stream in which his colleague wanted him to swim, just so that he wouldn’t feel hunted. After all, if Malik had the right to not answer and change the topic, Altair had the right to repeat himself, even if now he would approach this from an even wider angle.  
– Do you smoke? –  
Altair asked, seeing Malik grab a lighter from his pocket. Then he took a step forward, as if that combustion had lightened him, too. Malik started smoking, but took the cigarette out of his mouth almost immediately, to taste the memory of tobacco.  
– Sometimes. –  
Maybe nicotine in his blood would have made Altair’s disregard for privacy more bearable.  
– When you’re nervous? –  
The two men looked at each other, both aware that it wasn’t a question: Malik was nervous, period, and Altair wanted him to know that he had understood it. The hooded man was standing so close that the risk of a collision was becoming increasingly serious.  
– Aren’t you going back home, Altair? –  
Malik pronounced his name as if it was a warning and Altair took in the renewed subtext suggesting him to mind his own fucking business. He forced himself to accept it and moved towards other directions.  
– I smoke when I’m nervous, too. –  
Altair turned to glance at the sidewalk and look as far as his eyes could see. Not many people around, a cat crossing the road, the flashing lights of the night clubs and the over-filled trash bins that smelled like badly placed hope.  
– Or when I’m angry. –  
Altair added, his stare moving back to the cook and leveled his lips, to imply that he was done talking and was expecting an answer. Malik moved away from the wall, putting both his feet back on the sidewalk and taking a drag from the cigarette; he didn’t feel like talking nor listening and making it clear was imperative now, more than ever. He exhaled a cloud of smoke that disappeared at the first bout of wind, and he looked for Altair’s eyes under the hood.  
– I’m going. –  
The need to be direct clashed with the rough courtesy of his words. Malik was keeping the cigarette between two fingers, letting the ashes draw dancing circles in the air as it slipped away.  
– Would you like a beer? –  
In five words, Altair had put on the bench the cautiousness with which he had sworn himself he’d act just a moment before. Impulsiveness and impatience won over the resolution of adapting to Malik’s evasiveness and to his attempts at running. He followed instinct, his longing to just throw himself into the situation and give it a try, dictated by a firmness without taint or fear. He was the kind of guy who’d rather go home having accepted a _no_ rather than dwell forever upon an, _if only I had…_  
Altair kept his hands hidden in his pockets, his thumbs nervously rubbing the cloth on their inside. Malik felt challenged and sighed without keeping a certain lively impatience; he threw the cigarette on the ground, finished just after a couple of drags, and pressed on it with the tip of his shoe picturing doing the same with Altair’s head, just to see what was inside it. He spoke condescendingly, because he loathed to repeat himself.  
– I said I’m going. –  
He had no idea of how he managed to do it, but Altair had made him feel like going back home. Wanting to analyze that calculation’s solution, he deduced that Altair’s presence was, to him, less welcomed than Holly’s, but maybe it was an imprecise calculation, one that leaves a difference, because the solution just didn’t convince him. Altair was looking at him with meek eyes, his mouth closed, waiting for him, as if he didn’t consider valid the answer he just received. If Altair really wanted to pursue Malik seriously, it was better to make sure that Malik got adjusted to a few things from the beginning: one, that it was difficult that Altair wouldn’t eventually obtain what he wanted; two, that Altair’s stubbornness was only equal to his sincerity.  
– Stay. There’s a place nearby. –  
Altair moved his hands out of his pockets, letting them fall along his hips, trying to look more convincing. He wanted to take a step towards Malik, but he resisted: it was necessary to mind the delicate equilibrium at play. Not being able to move closer physically, he tried to make the invitation more appealing with a little add-on aiming to defeat the cook’s skepticism.  
– I’m buying. –  
He let his muscles relax, putting the ball in Malik’s camp.  
How bizarre, to have to recognize how people always ended up thinking Altair was a shy young man, or insecure, even. Except that he wasn’t shy, nor insecure; introverted, yes, reserved, too, but when something was piquing his interest no hesitation could put itself in between him and his target, and in his charges he wasn’t adjusted to make a problem out of where, when, customs or personal space. He could read people quickly, and he generally was right, and what he had understood when it came to Malik was that he was such a distrustful person that he didn’t just limit himself to being cautious, but he just would rather castrate every communication. That certainly wasn’t an element in his favor, but the magnetism oozing from his night-colored eyes, tied to that piercing sarcasm –and sharp in the most charming way– was pushing Altair to the point of making him reckless and throw himself in that mined field to let himself be blown up. He didn’t care much that Malik wasn’t probably interested in men romantically, since he currently had a girlfriend; simply, he hadn’t included that element in his calculations and so he was just limiting himself at showing what he had to offer, so that his colleague with that wild charm to him would be convinced to give him a chance.  
And on the opposite side of the river that was the distance between them, Malik stood: Malik, who hated insistence, superficiality and bad manners. Him, who liked that his word to be treated like the gospel and respected. Him, who liked to court people, but would much rather be courted instead. Him, who hated sweet nothings and romanticism, but then wasted sleepless hours at night imagining his soulmate. He was standing there, his eyes aquiline and indolent. Something in Altair’s shameless stare was alarming him; it was something that was able to ignore social conventions and personal boundaries. He could see bravery in that, he was willing to admit it, but right in that moment he didn’t feel so brave that he could repay him with the same coin. On the contrary, he thought that if time was also money, then Altair was a shameless thief. So, the only approach that was left to him was his abrasive one, that went hand in hand with the kind of honesty that winks at rudeness.  
– No. –  
He spat in a single word, his contracted eyebrows making his face clot into a creased expression. Then he realized that he should be civil about this, and act with some sense to him, and so he thought that it was the case to add a little nuance to that verdict.  
– Thank you. –  
Malik sighed mentally, sure that now the delivery was over and that he could give birth to his freedom. Like two straight lines that might never meet, their eyes were looking into two different futures: Altair towards his naked and modest hole of an apartment that he called home, a coke and maybe a bit of TV, alone as he was adjusted to; Malik towards his apartment, staring at the ceiling, in the bed with Holly but alone regardless, same as Altair.  
– Okay. –  
Said the young man under the hood. He wasn’t exactly disheartened, but he just had the calm acceptance of the person who knows they’ll have another chance. There wasn’t anywhere Malik could run, not even the fortress of his pride. Altair looked down at the sidewalk’s tiles and put his hands back in his pockets; he had bared himself, he fought, he lost: time to back to a defensive position. He looked back up after stepping on a few pine needles that the trees had cried that afternoon; his lips curled in what he thought was a smile, but only the intentions survived.  
– I’ll see you around then. –  
Malik observed him with a stony face, stuck in an opaque expression, as if sculpted in wax. He was taking pleasure from his victory, even if the prize was seeing Holly’s face before the due time. And for a moment he doubted: had he won, or lost?  
– Huh. –  
He muttered vaguely. The taste of tobacco in his mouth had already bothered him and that made him remember why he didn’t smoke regularly. He sharpened his stare, meaning to send Altair the message that he should scram, but his colleague was just looking at him from under a solid armor against his arrows and he took his own sweet time. Malik started counting mentally before he saw Altair turning his back and starting to walk away. Altair was like that: he was adjusted to use what he needed, and take what he liked. He was walking with his head held high, his face still hidden under his hood. The coldness of that cruel fall on the skin of his arms had the effect of a refreshing caress. If he couldn’t have the warmth of a pub and a fruity beer running down his throat, then he’d have had the balm of the evening and the scent of night flowers blooming.  
It wouldn’t have been that night, he thought. But after all, it was just a first attempt, that he should see more as warming up than a proper match. From that, he had gained a first compass that would have shown him the way for the next attempt. Maybe it wasn’t going to be that night, and it smelled a bit like a wasted chance since mood and motivation were on his side, and Malik clearly needed to be dragged in a dimension as far as possible from reality. It wasn’t going to be that night, and to be entirely truthful, he was a bit sorry about it. But even if that wooden taste was still between in his teeth, for Altair nothing was really much changed; fate had gifted him with patience, which, added to determination, turned him into an indestructible soul. He went around the corner and saw his sports motorcycle parked, while those thoughts just wouldn’t detach themselves, like a smudge of oil, pushing him to ask himself how it would have felt to tell Malik, in front of a beer, fessing up:  
_I don’t know her, but I think your girlfriend is a right proper bitch;_  
_Your eyes are really beautiful, but your ass is, too;_  
_I’d like to get to know you better;_  
_I think I like you._


	4. Chapter 4

_August, 2016.  
New York City._

 

– Are you nervous? –   
Lucy was picking at the black straw in her drink with the tip of her nails, waiting a few seconds before swallowing another spoonful of porridge. Altair had his mouth full of bacon and scrambled eggs, his backpack stuck in between his open legs and his elbows on the table so that his face wouldn’t fall into the plate for how sleepy he felt.  
– No. –   
He replied, drowsy, as he enjoyed his bacon, as crunchy as a bar of toasted seeds. The Starbucks shop was full, as was predictable at that time: the luckiest clients, and the majority of the tourists, were eating sitting, relaxed and without a hurry, while the others had their breakfast standing, or walking while holding a five hundred calories frappuccino.  
– You will like them all. –   
Lucy kept on, and then finally started drinking her iced vanilla coffee from her straw. Altair gave her a lopsided smile, thinking that it must have been time one hundred and twenty-seven since she told him that same thing first: _You will like all of them, it’s going to go great, you’ll feel comfortable, you’ll see_ , and every possible variant. He understood the sentiment behind it and the encouraging side of it, but she didn’t need to waste that much energy. Also because Altair preferred neutrality’s equilibrium to an incautious optimism. The young man stuck the last bit of food inside his mouth and swallowed it without even chewing.  
– I’m more worried about not disappointing you. –   
Altair said, lowering his eyes, because a part of him was feeling ashamed. Lucy shook her head and she huffed, as if she was neighing, as she played around with the porridge still halfway filling the bowl.  
– Stop it. –   
Altair, though, insisted, and he leaned back.  
– Well, I’m not like Desmond. –   
Lucy’s eyebrows knitted together and she stuck a spoonful of oat inside her mouth. Then she let out a sigh.  
– Has bacon turned you into a drama queen? –   
Altair smiled and cocked his head to the side, eyeing the cinnamon roll on the right topmost corner of his tray; the perfect end to any meal. He was going to get to it soon.  
– I’m just saying, I’m not as good as he is. –   
He shrugged, sincerely admitting his limits in comparison to his cousin.   
– Do you know how do I call whatever it is you’re doing? –   
Lucy asked, trying to focus more on the porridge than on Altair, even if then she pointed the spoon at him, incriminating him.  
– Getting your ass covered. –  
She sentenced, with her sharp eyes and her lips covered in nude lipstick. The corners of Altair’s mouth went downwards, and he pretended to be impressed.  
– It’s a self-defense mechanism. –  
Lucy kept on as she moved the blueberries in her bowl on one side – she wanted to keep them for last.  
– You’re just covering yourself saying that you’ll be terrible at this and a disappointment. –   
The blonde’s psychological analysis was moving onwards, and Altair’s eyes went back to the cinnamon roll. It’s not that he wasn’t interested in what she had to tell him, it was that he already knew that she was most probably right.  
– So, if it really happened and at the end of the day I told you that you’re not the right fit for this job, you could answer with _I told you so_. –   
Lucy stopped the full spoon mid-air, analyzing how Altair’s glare was reminding her of a memory foam mattress: he could always adapt to any context, deforming itself.  
– And this would make the defeat less bitter, for you. –   
She finished, finally letting herself eat that spoonful. She tried to chew fast, thinking that she might have to face Altair’s timely and possibly bitter retort, but he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. Instead, he passively put his hands in his pockets and nodded towards Lucy’s bowl.  
– Are you eating those blueberries? –   
He asked, seriously interested in the matter at hand. Lucy raised her head to the sky, breaking the statuesque pose that she had maintained intact until that very moment. Altair always knew how to rile her up.  
– It’s self-sabotaging, _Altair_.–   
She pronounced his name in an insulting tone on purpose, letting her half-closed fist land on the table. She hated those walls that he built up in defense every time she tried to get past the outer layer of his being – and in any case, yes, he apparently wanted to really eat her blueberries. Altair straightened up his back to save the entire situation.  
– I’m calm. Okay? –  
He showed her the palms of his hands, as if he felt like he had to excuse himself, and then he slowly grinned, one corner of his mouth rising upwards. Lucy took a good look at him, with the face of someone who wants to understand where the scam is, because she can smell it.   
– Chill. –   
Altair added, putting his hands on the table. The two looked at each other, in silence: his grin turned into a smile and her stare softened in the curve of complicity. As in a race to see who laughs first, both lost.  
– I’m always chill. –   
Lucy replied not without irony, and Altair’s eyebrows curved in an expression that was saying _sure, of course_. They allowed the rip that had happened in between them to continue on keeping them far from each other, the same way there are two free seats in a metro train but they’re separated by an occupied one in the middle. Lucy went back to concentrate on her porridge, checking the time once in a while, while Altair started wasting time on his cellphone: from the outside, he looked like one of those workaholics who checks their e-mail even as they eat, answers clients, checks bullet points from his list, checks the weather, plans, makes corrections. Instead, he was merely playing _Two Dots_. Lucy wiped her mouth clean and drank her coffee, which wasn’t so much iced anymore. Altair lost all his lives in the game and decided it was time to reach out for the cinnamon roll. He grabbed at it as he would have a woman’s breast and before bringing it to his mouth, he was already eating it with his eyes.  
– Have you checked the allergens? –   
Lucy asked, tense as a live wire. Altair had already opened his mouth wide and bared his teeth, and that stop-gap confused him. And then the synapses’ miracle happened in his brain, and fell back on Earth from the clouds. _Ah, right, that_.  
– There was nothing written on the counter’s tag. –   
Altair had left the cinnamon roll held up in the air, like a paused video, so that the envious bystanders on a diet could admire it while they only were having a sugar-less tea. His answer was midway in between truth and lie: he had checked the tag, but only to read the price, not the ingredients. Simply, he had assumed that a brioche wouldn’t have traces of _peanuts_ in it. Lucy leaned towards him.  
– We should ask. –   
She said, pushing back her chair to stand up. But Altair shrugged his shoulders, dismissing that slowdown in his plans; he just wanted to eat the damned cinnamon roll.  
– There’s nothing bad in it, chill. –   
And a moment later he bit down on the pastry, thinking that in any case the anaphylactic shock would have been worth it. Lucy tried to stop him, but she couldn’t; Altair’s teeth were already turning the excessive bite of food into a bolus. She silently reprimanded him with her eyes, her facial muscles and a kick that she threw at him under the table.  
– You idiot, you need to pay attention. –   
Altair took the hit on his shin, and walked out of it without a scratch. His nervous transmitters were too distracted by the embrace of cinnamon, along with a touch of clove, to notify him that he should have felt pain.  
– Do you always have your antihistamine with? –  
Lucy asked with the offended face of someone who was wronged. Altair nodded, puffing his cheeks, and raised up his thumb – lying. He knew even too well that he should always bring an antihistamine with in his wallet, but it’d have been easier to find a condom for occasional fucks in there rather than a life-saving pill. When laziness met stubbornness, it gave birth to a chimera made of excessive self-trust and selective attention; which was, admittedly, Altair’s portrait. If he decided something was not important, then it wasn’t.  
There wasn’t much space left in the next ten minutes they spent in the Starbucks. Lucy finished her porridge, Altair the cinnamon roll – managing not to die because of an allergic reaction. Lucy was busy mentally sorting the e-mails for the suppliers, and meanwhile she was reinforcing inside herself the certainty that Altair would have accepted to work at her place after that trial day. He had nothing to lose after all: the last three years held no exciting occupation for him, and she could see that he was lost and unsatisfied like a small chick who lost his mother hen along the path to the lake. Working in a safe environment, with her and his cousin Desmond, would have certainly helped Altair to get back on his tracks and find motivation again; possibly, to find again that healthy and revitalizing lust for life that had waned in him somewhat since Maria left him.  
Altair didn’t know, or maybe the shame stopped him from asking, but Lucy and Maria still kept in touch, once in a while, because college friendships are the hardest to let go. It would have distracted him, if not dazed, and for this reason Lucy had always restrained herself from involving him; but at the same time, there were moments when her inhibition turned more opaque and a reckless desire burned up in her to grab Altair’s face in between her hands and tell him that he had to wake up, be an adult, and that always pulling through doing the bare minimum wasn’t enough. And she’d have liked to tell him that Maria still wished the best for him, regardless of all, and her lips still curved with affection when she pronounced his name.  
But Lucy wasn’t Hermes, the messenger of the gods; there were limits to respect and borders one couldn’t cross. The only thing in her power to do was making sure that her best friend would love himself enough to look after himself and go back to walking with his head held up straight, because if you keep your eyes down too much you risk to end up running into a pole. She couldn’t keep on staying a silent witness to that deteriorating process during which Altair had convinced himself that nothing was worth it anymore and just because a woman, once, had broken his heart.

 

Altair didn’t like to admit it when it happened, but as it was, right then, he was feeling nervous. Lucy had sent him to the changing room to change his clothes and at this point his (probably) future colleagues would have joined him in a few minutes. That novelty was a bit exciting and a bit frightening to him, because he wasn’t always great at approaching people at first. The only thing he was excellent at was being himself, but then it always ended up with people asking him if he was pissed off because of something, or whether he was just very shy, or someone emotionally detached from the rest of the world and people. But Altair really didn’t have a beef with anyone, he didn’t feel insecure and at the end of all things he wasn’t a cold person either; it was just his face, and his composure.   
But he also knew, very well, that in the world of _showing off to prove something_ , an extroverted personality would always win, and it would end up destroying _everyone else_ ; if you don’t smile it means you’re unhappy, or you woke up on a bad day; if you don’t talk loudly enough to scream, you’re not enjoying things; if you don’t laugh, you’re not having fun; and if you don’t talk, then you have nothing to say.  
Altair finally buttoned his trousers and glanced at the changing room’s window, remembering that it was summer, and it was hot, and he needed to face a challenge that was not showing up at the beach looking good in swimwear. He wanted to find the right equilibrium in between trying to not impress Lucy at all costs and not fucking everything up. He needed that job, he wanted it, and he wouldn’t have had it at better conditions anywhere else: your best friend as your boss, your cousin as your colleague, people looking at you with that _oooh_ in the eyes because your Arabian pronounce of the dishes is perfect, since you actually know the language.  
The door opened and Altair’s shoulders tensed; he turned and saw a young man with light brown hair walk in: he had glasses down to the tip of his nose, a helmet under his arm and armpits already sweating visibly. Altair had already memorized the names of the other co-workers, but he still couldn’t associate them to their faces. Rebecca, Shaun, Malik, Desmond. Excluding Desmond and Rebecca for obvious reasons, there were two left. And unless Malik had lost his middle-eastern traits because he was a thirty-seventh-generation immigrant, or unless his parents just really loved exotic names, then that one must be Shaun.  
– Shaun? –   
Altair asked, still giving himself the benefit of the doubt. The other man raised his glasses up towards the bridge of his nose with his index fingers and closed the door. He looked surprised.  
– In the flesh. –   
He said, theatrically, but with a good-natured smile. He reached the middle bench and put his things on it. He rubbed his hands’ palms on his jeans and then held out his hand to the new arrival.  
– You must be Altair, right? –   
The question betrayed a light British accent that Altair didn’t miss. He smiled briefly and shook Shaun’s hand back, maybe putting too much effort in it.   
– _In the flesh_. –   
He replied, quoting back the Brit, who did seem a normal guy at first approach, someone who isn’t born for huge plot twists. Usually, he didn’t think it necessarily a good thing, but in a job environment, predictable mediocrity was absolutely great as far as he was concerned. Shaun laughed, aspirating, but not cynically. He pointed at Altair, as if he was saying, _you look like a real swell guy_ , and then turned towards the lockers.  
– How’s it going? Everything all right? –   
Shaun asked, taking the key to the locker out of his pocket and opening the metallic door. Altair understood that he was trying to make him at ease, or to just make small talk, and he found it comforting. He put a hand on his opposite arm and stood immobile on his feet, like a lightening pole waiting for a seagull to drop a load on its head.  
– Hm. –  
He found nothing better to say; it was true, eventually, that he was doing all right. He was just standing there with his antennas out, to get a feeling of the place and the people. Like a secret agent: the first thing he thought of when walking inside a new place was where to find the emergency exits first.  
– I’m so glad you’re here, you know. I don’t know you yet, but I’m sure you’ll be better than that twat. –   
Shaun grabbed his work t-shirt with the _Half Moon Kebab_ logo, shaking it a couple of times. Altair remained in doubt: should he ask further, or mind his own business?  
– What twat? –   
He chose to ask, so that he wouldn’t look rude. Shaun took off his own t-shirt and sighed, trying to get rid of the leftover heat that was still sticking to his skin. He grabbed a rolled-up towel from the locker and ran it over his flat pecs and under the armpits. Doing that, he turned to look at the new arrival, talking to him with the same care that the mentor archetype always has for the hero.  
– Cross, the one who was kicked out. –   
Shaun took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the towel. His stare went back on Altair, his expression turning ironic.  
– The reason why you’re here, pretty much. –   
He added, wriggling his hand around after putting the glasses back on. Altair thought the Brit was a strange mixture of spicy and bitter: a new spice, that he couldn’t find a name for. He looked like your usual nice guy with a quick tongue, until the joke’s on you, of course. Altair didn’t raise up to the bait and didn’t let any particular emotion shine through, because he was busy connecting the dots in his mind: it must have been that Daniel Cross Lucy had talked to him about when she had proposed him to come working at the _Half Moon_.  
– Ah, right, I got it. –   
Said Altair in a neutral tone. They had exchanged four lines or so and he already felt exhausted. Shaun raised his head to the sky, ready to start on his liberating, dramatic pantomime.  
– No, really, you have no clue. –   
The Brit started as he put on his work shirt.  
– He could totally come to work while drunk. –   
Shaun ran a hand through his buzz cut and arched his eyebrows as his pupils dilated, so that the aura of absurdity of the words he was about to pronounce would become bigger.  
– Even early in the morning. –   
Again, Altair remained impassive in front of that regurgitation of useless information mixed with gratuitous intolerance, only being able to think that it was fairly rude to talk behind an ex-colleague’s back when he had just been fired, whichever was the reason.  
– That bloke had serious issues. –   
Shaun closed the locker and turned the key, then sitting on the central bench and changing his shoes.  
– According to me, he was doing drugs, too. –   
Altair relaxed from the position he had been stuck on for a long while, letting his arms fall along his hips with a mute sigh: the colleague’s chattering was making him feel as he was suffocating. He hated feeling like he had to comment on the banal chattering people made, and hiding how he was not interested in gossip wasn’t easy. Thankfully, someone came to his rescue and the door opened again: the second new colleague.  
– Hey. –  
Malik took his earbuds out of his ears and the two wires tangled up with each other in a dance as fast as devilish. Malik’s eyes met Altair’s in a straight line, and Altair took the initiative to come closer, if only to escape from the chattering of his first meeting.  
– Morning. –   
Shaun said as he noticed Malik with a quick glance and went back bending to tie his shoes; Altair, finally, had something else to focus on: the second colleague was at the distance of a held-out arm, and Altair’s first impression was curiosity. That young man, same as him, wore the signs of a registry office story more complex than the average American’s – or at least, that’s what Altair hoped: the skin color, which reminded him of the desert’s dunes that one sees at least in pictures; the eye-shape, that belonged to Mediterranean lands; the short and black hair, thick and strong, that protects from a cruel sun.   
Just as Altair’s own, his appearance betrayed an identity which – to tell the truth – Altair had felt as uncomfortable starting from the first day in which, unexpectedly, he had felt different in between the herd. He reached out a hand toward his new acquaintance, who had to be Malik, the cook Lucy told him was Syrian: same as he was, even if only one half.  
– Altair, nice to meet you. –   
Altair said, introducing himself and trying to not let the other notice too much that something had in fact piqued his interest and was making him think. Malik was holding in between his hands the backpack’s strap which then he put on the bench’s side, and shook hands with the new arrival, whose name and traits reminded him of his homeland.  
– Malik. –   
The other young man who just came in simply replied, pretending he wasn’t focusing on certain details on Altair’s face: the traits couldn’t have been described as soft, but they made him look serious and reliable, and for Malik those were always aspects you could appreciate in someone’s personality.  
– My pleasure, _Altair_. –   
Malik broke the handshake and took back his hand, leaving Altair’s ears delighted, and it was impossible to ignore it: Malik had pronounced his _real_ name, not the one belonging to Anglo-Saxon phonetics; the original that doubled the _ts_ and didn’t join the _a_ and the _i_ in one slightly deformed _e_. In short, he had called him the way that came natural to his mother and father, in the respect of an origin and a language that Altair kept in between his hands like a closed package that had _handle with care_ stamped on it. That little spark had been enough to light an interest in him; actually, it lit an entire flame of questions that ran after each other like in a relay race: so, did Malik speak Arabian? Was he bilingual? No, because he could understand Arabian enough, but he couldn’t speak it really well. Because he was _American_ , not Syrian; even if he was born in Syria, even if his father’s name was Umar, born and grown up in that land on the other side of the ocean, even if Altair was of mixed blood, even if his looks certainly wouldn’t remind anyone of the founding fathers. No, no, no. He was American, he ate at McDonald’s, he dressed with Nike clothes, he was an atheist even if he kept on not eating pork – unless it was bacon or sausages. That stuff wasn’t _pork_ , it was… _bacon_ and _sausages_ , indeed; things that were absolutely different and held a different status in regards to their piggish origins.  
But Altair, in between all those _yeses_ and _nos_ that were battling as if in the middle of a bipolar disorder-light fight, the questions kept on falling from the cracks of doubt: Lucy told me that he was born in Syria, too, but who knows where. In Damascus, too? How did he get to the US? And when? Maybe he practices? Did he understand that my olive-tanned skin isn’t like that because I spent Sundays sunbathing in Coney Island?  
– How was the concert? –   
Shaun asked, re-emerging from the eclipse that Altair had forced on him: he didn’t even remember there were three people in the changing room. Altair understood immediately that the question was for Malik, not him. He thought it was ridiculous, but Altair was a bit annoyed for that interruption that to him, was the same as interrupting a mental and unilateral conversation he was having with Malik.  
– It was amazing. Absolutely cool. –   
Malik replied, taking a pair of shoes from his backpack and putting the rest in the locker.  
– You should have come. –   
He added, sitting on the bench and getting ready. From that point onwards, Altair didn’t follow too much, limiting himself to acquiring sparse information, and wholly casual to boot: an experimental rock band, some woman named Holly, some guy named Kadar, possibly going on vacation in Mexico… Altair remained isolated in his own little shrunken world, like a meatball covered in the flour of _ifs_ and _maybes_ thinking that maybe he could find a small moment in which to let out that curiosity that had reached his stomach, seconding the doubts asking for an answer, and at the same time enjoying the warm comfort that is always obtained by someone who expects the worst and instead obtains the best.  
The idea of working in there wasn’t so scary anymore.

 

It was half past three and Altair’s first shift was almost over. He wanted to actually go out on a limb and say that it had even been fun: he had manned the check-out and the counter, helped out in the kitchen, swept the main room and cleaned the tables. He was slower issuing receipts because he always had to check the menu, as he hadn’t memorized all the prices yet, but after one hour he could have passed the test with a perfectly fair grade. The service was about the same: Shaun was showing him with great precision how to cut the meat, how to roll the bread artfully filled and how to pour the sauces without letting them flow outside the wrap. He liked it, and he was learning fast. The environment was nice, too, and even Shaun was an okay guy when he wasn’t gossiping about others, or complaining. He hadn’t seen much of Malik until then, since he was always in the kitchen.  
Then, Desmond and Rebecca arrived to change their shifts; Desmond taking Altair’s place, Rebecca to take Malik’s. Shaun’s replacement was going to be Michael, the co-owner of the _Half Moon_ and Lucy’s colleague, who Altair had a chance to meet a few days before to take decisions about his eventual hiring. When Desmond walked inside the shop, with his sports, strapped fanny pack and sunglasses that made him look though, Altair couldn’t restrain himself and slipped from behind the counter to meet him. He lifted an arm and hugged his cousin, patting him on the back twice soundly. It seemed like they hadn’t seen each other for a lifetime, but it wasn’t true.  
– So, how did it go? You have to tell me everything. –   
Desmond started, taking off the sunglasses. Altair nodded and then replied, unable to actually go out on a limb too much, because that was his nature.  
– Good. –   
Desmond quickly nodded at Shaun who was still behind the counter, then smiled again at Altair and headed for the personnel-only area.  
– Come on, walk with me. –   
Walking near the check-out, Desmond waved at Michael, who winked at him, while Lucy was locked in the office dealing with receipts. Once they were alone in the hallway, Desmond elbowed his older cousin to force him to put some more effort.  
– So, what does Lucy say? What do you think? How did you like the other guys? –   
Desmond was excited like a teenager at his first date, and as soon as they got inside the changing room he didn’t let Altair get away with saying nothing – meanwhile, Altair leaned against the lockers.  
– Hm, I like it. –   
Altair replied in the vaguest possible way, crossing his arms on his chest. Truthfully, he was happy, even electrified, but there was always his usual emotive filter that was ready to stain with ambiguity any emotion. Sometimes he looked pissed off or indifferent even if he was on the total opposite side of the emotional spectrum: hard to explain that it was simply his resting face. It was an expression that Desmond knew even too well, but this time he wasn’t going to be happy with that. _I like it, what?_ He thought. _The place? The job? The colleagues?_ He wanted more. He wanted details.  
– Oh, come on! –   
Desmond exclaimed, impatient, as he opened his locker. A more pronounced smile brushed against Altair’s lips, and then he shrugged and lowered his stare, trying to perfect his answer.  
– Malik is cool. –   
He said, without knowing exactly what he meant with it, since they had barely exchanged a couple of words. But Altair thought first impressions were important, and for now that was the judgment.  
– Shaun is…okay. –   
He added, always because first impressions count. Desmond rolled his eyes and sat down on the bench with a snicker followed by some kind of wheezing.  
– Yeah, whatever. That one’s a pain in the ass. –   
He took off his shoes and looked at Altair, warning him.  
– But he’s bearable. –   
He concluded, sure that the Brit with a jab always ready was the minor evil, a negligible gap. The fact that he, his cousin Altair and a common friend worked together was too amazing to let some idiot ruin his idyllic picture. Then Desmond decided to cut things short and jump to conclusions directly, since he knew Altair enough to know that he wouldn’t have gotten much more information out of him.  
– So, whatever, are you staying? Yes? –  
He asked rhetorically, only leaving the shadow of the question: he wanted it to be a certainty. Altair’s lips opened to get ready to answer, thinking that throughout the entire shift he saved half of his energies to think on it, valuating and pondering every angle of that opportunity: environment, pay, colleagues, stress, free time; but also: personal motivation, a father who was going to stop telling him to _get his act together_ , a mother that would have slept serenely knowing that her son has the money to buy his own food, some stability and newfound economic independence. There was all of this boiling in the pot, and the recipe was delicate, the kind where if you go overboard with even one of the spices you can throw the entire dish in the toilet. Altair managed to let his facial muscles relax in a more spontaneous expression, reassured by the fact that this job guaranteed that he’d have Desmond and Lucy always nearby.  
– Of course I’m staying. – 

 

Altair knocked on the door of Lucy’s office, but he got in without waiting for an answer: one of the attitudes he would need to change if he wanted to really work there. Of course, they were friends, but professional distance was an obligation without compromises, and those were exactly the words he saw in Lucy’s stare when she saw him walk inside the room while she was sitting at her desk, surrounded by stacks of paper, like a true, good head of human resources. Altair stopped, the same way you do when you realize you’ve been just about to step in dog shit you hadn’t noticed before.  
– What’s the matter? –   
He asked, almost worried: he didn’t understand where he might have gone wrong, and he hadn’t even started talking. Lucy motioned for him to close the door and to come closer, the tension in her eyebrows softening a bit, but not freeing him from doubt.  
– Sit down, we have to talk. –   
Lucy went back looking at her documentation, allowing that mysterious and inauspicious sentence to loom in the air so that she could put some sane fear into her friend. That hit didn’t exactly land where it was supposed to: Altair sat down lazily on the chair, leaning fully on it with his back, with opened legs that would have made him the protagonist of an outraged manspreading complaint. He was completely relaxed. He waited patiently until Lucy was done writing down things and thumbing through cellulose, and meanwhile he took a thorough look at the office he had learned to know. It was sober, modest and tidy, same as its owner’s clothing choices.  
– So. –   
Lucy finally raised her eyes and moved her fringe over her ear. Her though look hadn’t waned, but one could feel the hint of a truce. Altair snorted a bit, his hands leaning on his abs. Lucy leaned towards him, putting all her weight on her elbows.  
– So, what can you tell me? How did you like it? What do you think? –   
She asked, surprised that she had used three interrogation marks in a row. Generally, she was more cautious. But then again, she was talking to Altair, and she didn’t want to risk making him confused with excessive syntactic pretenses, or subordinate clauses even.  
– I saw that you were working well, today. –  
She added, trying to give her friend – and almost for sure future employee – a full picture of her impressions. And she hoped he’d do the same. Altair moved his head, his eyes watchful, but what left his mouth certainly couldn’t be described as the fruit of some elaborate reflection.  
– Yes, I like it. –   
He said nothing more, as if he had signed his contract just with that sentence. But Lucy’s stare wasn’t letting him go and it was as clear as a plastic surgery mistake that she wouldn’t have been happy with just that. So, Altair straightened up his back and cleared his throat, pretending he was some anonymous person interested in that job opening, instead of the best friend of his future boss.  
– Okay, well, the place was all right. The tasks division works, I’m good at everything. The counter is fun, too, I can already put a kebab together without doing anything wrong. –   
He exaggerated a bit on that, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t get perfect in another couple of shifts. The point was that he would have really liked to work there, and everything he was waiting for was Lucy’s final confirmation. She looked at him patiently, like an elementary school teacher: _I’m good at everything, it’s fun, I can already (…) without doing anything wrong_. It was hard to expect anything different from him: Altair’s world was small, made up of his ego, his self-satisfaction and only three pronounce: I, me, mine. Lucy would have appreciated a bit more of an effort when maturity was concerned, but she also thought that they were just beginning and she couldn’t expect huge changes just snapping her fingers. That said, that arrogance and superficiality could be amusing to her, sometimes, since they were a distraction from monotonous false modesty. She smiled a bit at that thought, but then she forced herself to wait a moment before opening up; there were still a few dots to put on the is.   
– I’m glad. –   
She said, more as a starting point than as an effective answer: they both knew the most important part was coming. Lucy took the pen in between her hands, moving into the typical position of a boss who’s about to fire or promote someone.  
– That said, I have to be clear with you. –   
She started, like Altair remembered her doing the first time they talked in that office. Lucy loved him, she was glad to help him out, but she also was a person with objectives, a vision, and standards to maintain. As in, someone hard to negotiate with.  
– According to the premises we agreed on, and seeing how you worked today, I’m more than happy to hire you and have you come back tomorrow. –   
Altair curved his lips with a point of pleasure and pride. He never refused a compliment, even if indirect.  
– That said, there are rules to respect that I have no intention to compromise on. –   
There it was: a suppository was coming and Altair had no lube with him. Lucy cocked her head on the side and her next words had a more detached tone than before.  
– When you’re on the job, I’m your boss. –   
The opening was predictable; nothing out of the ordinary, for now.  
– Which means: no games, no confidences and no favoritisms. –   
Her words were tracing an invisible red line on the ground, separating the concept of friendship and the one of work relationship. Altair thought it was fair, and didn’t expect anything different from Lucy. He was grateful to her for this favor, larger than any he had paid anyone else in his life, and he wanted her to know it entirely. So Altair nodded promptly, his eyes serious and his expression humble.  
– Absolutely. –   
He nodded up and down with his head to convince her of his good will.  
– No bullshit. I swear. –  
He raised one hand’s pal upright, like a boy scout.   
– I’ll be good. I won’t disappoint you. –   
He finished, closing a mouth that had been talking too much for his standards. He wanted to look reliable, but he was aware that words aren’t worth much when it’s about trust, and what matters are facts. Lucy finally smiled, easy-going: an exchange of promises had the same flavor of honey in your mouth. Nothing else needed to be added.   
– Okay, then. –   
Her shoulders relaxed, free from the weight of doubt. And Altair’s face relaxed, free from the weight of waiting.  
– Let’s do it like this: you finish this week, and of course you’ll be paid, and if everything goes fine you can sign the contract on Monday. –  
She was talking like a telephone operator, and for a moment she thought she might have come across as rude.  
– Would it work? –   
She asked for confirmation, lowering her head a bit, like a shy cat. Altair smiled, without paying too much attention to the details. He trusted Lucy and she could handle it the way she wanted.  
– Of course. –   
He shrugged in satisfaction and kept on looking at her, waiting to read in her eyes the confirmation that they could talk about something else, like what Desmond had proposed before for that night. But then he stumbled in another setback.  
– How do the guys seem to you? –   
Lucy asked, surprising Altair. He was sure that his blunt answers had already shown his opinion on the matter. _Or maybe not?_ He thought. Or maybe he had the bad habit of assuming that what ran through his head could reach other people by osmosis. A grave mistake, because instead he needed to put some effort in it and explain himself, he couldn’t run from it.  
– Fine. They’re cool. I like them. –   
Then he started a mute list in his head that happened on its own. Desmond wasn’t to be counted, he was his cousin; Shaun was a smart-ass but eventually innocuous; Malik was nice, and he also was very good-looking… and then they had _something_ in common; Rebecca had arrived just after Desmond in the afternoon and she was one of those people that no one could ever hate; he had already taken Michael in the previous week and he was accepted like one of those old family friends that you always remember fondly. Everyone was on the list, and they were all being promoted with excellent grades. No particular person to cut off the list to warn about.  
– How did it go with Malik? –   
Lucy asked with a curious smile that looked strange on her, and Altair felt threatened. He cocked his head and knitted his eyebrows. Lucy explained herself better.  
– Did you two have a chat? Did he tell you anything? Was he curious? –  
Altair opened his lips but then no word came out of them, and he focused looking at the ceiling, as if he was trying to put together an elusive detail.  
– I mean, you haven’t told each other anything specific? –   
Lucy was surprised, but Altair was more surprised that she was actually interested in the matter at hand. It was smelling of some fastidious subtext, that sometimes came back in their conversations, where she defined him – with envy – the son of a mixed marriage, when he, with resent, insisted that he was _American_ , one hundred per cent; as if his father, that represented his Syrian half, was some kind of insult or demerit. Something that’s better to not put in a CV.  
To be honest, Altair was a bit of a superficial young man and he had some insecurities, a lot of bullshit in his head and a couple of parasites attached to his ass, namely, _stereotype_ and _prejudice_. Something hard to demolish for Lucy alone, who, on her side, had the gift of logic but not enough guts to give Altair a couple slaps in the face when it was needed.  
Then again, words also have their limits.  
– Like? –   
Altair asked, his eyes narrowing. Lucy huffed tiredly and her arms fell on the desk.  
– I had understood you might have enjoyed talking to someone with your same background. –  
Altair’s lips curved down in an expression that you couldn’t make justice to describing it as _not impressed_ , and then he shrugged as if to say, _so what?_ That was just to tire Lucy and make sure any motivation to keep on with that conversation would be sucked out of her. On his side, in the depths of his real self, Altair was absolutely intentioned to go and say hi personally to Malik as soon as he walked out of the office; there were a few things he actually wanted to ask him.  
But that was a secret, not something he could discuss with Lucy so freely.  
– Ah, well, who even understands you. –   
Lucy commented, giving up, and more inclined towards jumping back inside her papers than to waste time with her friend’s stubbornness. Altair’s system had worked out. He leaned further, feeling victorious, and finally let out what had been dancing on the tip of his tongue for a while.  
– Hey, do you have anything to do tonight? –   
Lucy didn’t look up from the papers, letting him wait for her answer.  
– Depends. –   
She said, like a girl who wants to be courted. Altair started drumming on the floor with his foot, then took his cellphone from his pocket and opened Whatsapp.  
– Ezio asked Desmond and me if we could see each other, and he said you could come, too, if you wanted. –   
He opened the cousin’s group chat, which was stock full of gifs, memes, bad jokes, dumb videos, porn links, more emojis than words; as in, all characteristic of teenagers, not young adults.  
– Mh. –   
Lucy said, without raising her eyes from her papers still, tracing straight lines on them with her pen.  
– It should be around Little Italy. –  
Altair added, fishing for the details of the proposal in that conversation. Ezio always was the one deciding _where_ , in those cases, given that he knew any pub, bar or disco club in the city, and he also had been there, and he had hooked up with someone there, too. Surprising him was impossible.  
– I haven’t seen Ezio in a long time. –   
Said Lucy, stopping her pen.  
– How’s he doing? –   
Finally, the girl looked up and her lips curled in a smile, born at thinking of Ezio, not of Altair.  
– Come tonight and ask him yourself. –   
He replied, with the cellphone still in his hand. _Touché_ , she admitted to herself.  
– At eleven, here, outside. –   
She said, turning synthesis into a cutting blow. Altair smiled, showing his teeth. He slipped his cellphone inside his pocket, stood up and stretched, taking his time. He had sat down for only five minutes and he already was feeling sluggish.  
– Cool. –   
The young man added, without any particular necessity. He was happy about that nostalgic reunion that reminded him of high school and the summers they spent dicking around all together, at a time when their greatest worry was blackheads on their noses. Altair made a gesture with his hand and turned on himself like a screw, reaching the door and leaving without procrastinating. He had a few hours left before that evening’s appointment. He could go back home and play a few games on his Play Station, or train a bit, or put on the washing machine, or sleep. But whatever he decided to do, he still had three things to go through first: saying goodbye to Desmond – who was at the counter now – and confirm him that they were meeting tonight, Lucy included. Saying goodbye to the other guys that he had worked with and that he would see again on the next day, and the next one, and again, and again. Because yes, Altair Ibn-La’Ahad was hired at this point.   
And, for last, steal from Malik a few minutes of his time. 

 

Altair found Malik in the changing room, just in time to cross paths with him before he left. He was sitting on the bench, checking his cellphone, his arm already inserted into the strap and the shoes already on his feet. Altair thought to say hi, but then he realized his mouth had grown lazy and the initiative was unbearable. So he thought he’d smile at him, but that turned out wrong because his face contorted in a weird smirk, maybe because of how tired he was. Eventually, he only sat on the bench, on Malik’s right, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at him like a puppy dog in a shelter would look at a human being. Then he realized he had no idea of how to start that conversation. Thankfully, Malik was better than him and, joining intuition and good matters, he put the cellphone on the side for a moment.  
– How did it go? –   
The cook asked, asking himself if Altair was going to become a new colleague effectively. Even if, considering that he was friends with Lucy, he had little doubts on that matter. Not that he minded too much; as far as he was concerned, everyone should do their share and work well, which meant _at least_ at his level. Waiting for a reply, his eyes fell on Altair’s left arm, the one next to his side. The light and sleeveless t-shirt was showing a tattoo on his biceps: a sketched eagle painted with black ink.  
– It went well. –   
Altair replied, not having on the side a great lexicon to express himself in full details. He mentally thanked Malik for the question, so he could latch to the excuse of an incidental conversation while he usually was adjusted to cut through the formalities, which meant that sometimes he could sound eccentric; and rude, in the worst of cases.  
– So, you’re coming back tomorrow? –   
Malik asked again, smelling that the other man was interested in some sort of conversation, but the initiative was clumsy and scarce. His eyes, though, stopped again on the tattooed eagle design, and he started asking himself if the motivation behind it was somehow linked to the meaning of Altair’s name. Or better, he asked himself if Altair even knew the meaning of his name. Because he could have had tattooed by chance or by coincidence. But then he thought, too, _does he even speak Arabic? What generation is he? Will he be aware? Maybe he doesn’t care at all for it…_   
– I tasted your cooking. –   
Altair said, interrupting Malik’s mental flights. Malik looked at him with the face of someone who missed a link in the conversation.  
– It’s really tasty. You’re good. –   
Said Altair sincerely, not finding any reason to lie about it. In his brief lunch break he had gone through a plate of _ouzi_ , _felafel_ with _hummus_ and a few spoons of _tabbouleh_. He hadn’t launched himself on the _baklava_ just because his time was up and he had to go back to the check-out. Not a great loss, since now he’d have all the time in the world to eat to his heart’s will inside that place. Even if Altair was the farthest from the _refined taste_ point on the map of gastronomy, and he didn’t have much pretenses in the nutritive field, still he admitted it was the best meal he ever had in his life. And as soon as Malik deciphered the compliment, he smiled to thank him. He knew he was great behind a stove, but a confirmation is always a confirmation.  
– Thank you. –   
He answered, satisfied with the approval. After exhausting the premises and the niceties, Altair figured that it was time to get to the point of ( _his_ ) question. So, staring at Malik in the eyes, the blackest he had ever seen, he asked a question masked as an affirmation.  
– Lucy told me you come from Syria. –   
That last word grabbed the cook’s attention and he, maybe without realizing it, blinked when he heard it. Yes, it was a correct assumption. Lucy also had told him that Altair, the new guy who was coming to try out the job, had Syrian origins, for half at least. He didn’t know who out of the two of them should have been more pleased by that information, but that information had slipped under his skin, that day.  
– Exactly. –   
Replied Malik, already knowing that Altair wouldn’t have stopped there.  
– What town? –   
Altair pressed on, as predicted. He looked curious, but Malik had no problem with that, not yet. In that land so far from the Mediterranean coast it was hard to think he could find someone who’d remind him who he was and where he came from. Altair was keeping his back bent and his hands joined in between his knees. From the window, a lone ray of sun was hitting the back of his neck, creating a halo around his head.  
– Aleppo. –   
Malik replied, while images of olive and pistachio trees filled his eyes. Memories that not even an ocean of distance could delete. But at that point his guts just twisted over on themselves, the way it always happened when he pronounced the name of the city where he was born, whether for bureaucratic needs or because of a single person’s curiosity. Concerning that, actually, he had to hear every kind of comment one could imagine, to the point his ears would bleed. _But where is this place, in Canada?_ , as if there wasn’t a place in the world that could be farther than the strip of land of the Americas; _but Aleppo, like the soap?_ , the ones who were more into exotic stuff had asked him, and at that point Malik’s sarcastic jab would be let loose, and he always precise that it was most likely the soap taking the name from the city and not the contrary; and then there were the people who were more or less informed, and they commented faking empathy that in the end always came out deformed:  
 _Oh, Aleppo… that city in Syria that’s been bombed, right?_   
Yeah, right. Exactly that. His home.  
– I’m from Damascus. –   
Altair replied, throwing the ball back in the other’s court, his lips curving in an arc. He felt safe sharing that detail with Malik even if he didn’t even know him. His only fear was to be singled out as different, alien, strange to a world and a culture that always belonged to him, since he could remember. _Everyone is the same, but some are more equal than others_ , someone had said once, more or less. It could hold a certain weight to have _Ibn-La’Ahad_ as a surname in that city. Maybe in a lot of cities. It was a continuous having to apologize and to precise things, a continuous _it’s not the way it looks like_.   
He was American, without brackets or quotation marks. And he just wanted it to be clear.  
Malik nodded with his head, thinking that when he was young he had gone to the capital city maybe twice, and he didn’t remember a lot of it. It was an ambiguous feeling that was creeping inside his bones: the certainty of knowing that the person next to you knows what you’re talking about, and the ghost of suspicion that steers you to keep your mouth closed. Maybe it was too soon to go out on a limb with this topic. What did he know of Altair, after all?  
– Have you known Lucy for a long time? –   
Malik asked, changing brusquely the geography of that conversation.  
Altair was disoriented, just for a moment. He parted his lips and shrugged, while his eyes were fixed on the details of Malik’s face: the fine beard along the bones of his jaw, the goatee cured to the last detail, the Mediterranean nose and that black hair’s cut, just barely fringed. It came natural to him to think that he was a very good looking man, way more attractive than some that he had happened to spend a few dirty and sweaty nights with.   
– We went to school together.–   
He replied, without feeling ashamed of their relationship, a perfect magnet for envy on the workplace. But thankfully it didn’t seem to him that Malik’s was trying to be polemical; and he wasn’t. Malik grunted in agreement, and then checked his phone again, maybe to look at the time, maybe at some notification. It seemed like it was time for him to go, and Altair hoped it wasn’t because of him.  
– Are you coming back tomorrow? –   
Asked the cook – he hadn’t forgotten that Altair hadn’t replied, the first time he asked. Malik planted his feet on the ground firmly, ready to stand, waiting for a confirmation or a negation; possibly fast. Altair looked at him as if he was some kind of withered flower: he was hoping to ask him some other question, maybe chat a bit. But their shifts were done, after all, and he would have seen Malik again the next day. There wasn’t a need to be childish and just grab on to the nipple.  
– Hm. –   
Altair said, nodding with his head, the way a pigeon would. Malik smiled and nodded as well, as if he was accepting him officially as his new colleague. He stood and fixed the strap behind his back, disappearing with a sigh.  
– See you tomorrow then. –   
Malik said as a goodbye, with the lack of attention typical of someone who’s already thinking of something else, as in, their business. Altair let his face morph into a smile again to reciprocate, even if Malik had already given him the shoulder: a few seconds, and he was alone in the changing room, listening to the summer concert of the air conditioner’s rotors, the ones that every year contribute to make polar bears’ houses smaller. He looked at the hands that he was keeping still joined tight, while the light from the window was hitting him on the right side of his face now, splitting it in half. He was thinking.  
He was thinking that he was convinced after that day of work. It was a good way to get by, a nice place where he could spend the time doing useful things, and there were good people to do them with. Just now, at the end of his trial, he could admit to himself that in the morning he had felt scared, indeed. Altair was a pessimist and a perfectionist, the best combination to live, arm in arm with anxiolytics. It was difficult that he was satisfied of anything, and even when that happened it didn’t last long, or maybe he started thinking he didn’t really deserve it. It was some kind of impostor syndrome that he had learned to fight, subconsciously, with the opposite extremes: presumption, arrogance, excessive faith in one’s self. He remembered the word that Lucy had used that morning: _self-sabotage_. He thought that it was about similar to telling yourself stories with a bottle of wine nearby: after a while you forget where you started, the contours fade and with them the details, too, and truth get mixed with masks, you lose any interest in going in deeper, everyone is sleepy and at the end everyone’s good with things.   
This place, though, it could work.  
This time, even his parents would have been enthusiastic: Lucy was keeping an eye on him, and Desmond would cheer him on. His father couldn’t have asked for better. If, then, Altair told him that one of his colleagues was also coming from a Syrian family, he probably might have cried. Umar would have pushed him towards a heartfelt return to their origins, same as an old minstrel. An operation that never worked with Altair – to the point that his father had started thinking that Altair’s refusal of his middle-eastern half was a refusal of _him_. And Umar suffered for it. But things were more complex than that.  
Altair could already hear him exclaim: _then why don’t you speak Arabic to him at work? You always refuse to do it with me and you’re losing fluency_. Just thinking about it, his face grimaced into an expression of embarrassment and intolerance. It would have been a nightmare, he already knew. But at least his father wouldn’t have had anything to complain about his dead-end jobs anymore (all absolutely temporary), or about his drinking that started a bit too soon and ended too late, about the girls that he wasn’t dating anymore and the boys that were always too many and whose names he always forgot. _I’m worried about you_ , that was his justification to slip in with a stretched leg in his private life and reminding him what, according to him, was right or wrong.  
The sound of a notification, joined to a vibration, took Altair right out of those underwater thoughts and brought him back to the surface. He took his cellphone out of his pocket and read: it was from the WhatsApp chat _The Manly Cool Gang_ , in which Ezio seemed to be very happy about their meet-up being confirmed for that night, along with Lucy’s addition. The forecast for the event was fairly predictable: they were going to drink, they were going to fool around a bit, they’d have laughed until they were drooling; then Ezio would have convinced them to have a last round, paying for all of them, and they would have accepted, as usual. Altair’s new job would have pushed Desmond and Lucy to press for a toast, and Ezio would have screamed making sure the whole room knew what they were toasting to. Elaborating on the mental image creating itself in his head, Altair’s heartbeat sped up a bit: he would have liked to climb on the roof and reach with his hands to the sky until he could catch the sun and push it towards the horizon line so that sunset would arrive sooner, and with it, their meet-up. Instead, he took his helmet from the locker and left the room, grabbed his motorcycle’s keys and left the shop, waving at the others with a hand. As he reached his motorcycle, he did some mental math and reached the conclusion that he had all the time for a one-hour run, a shower, a bit of gaming and a dinner with an extra-large round pizza in the place just under his house.  
That evening, the real transgression needed to be avoiding digging his own grave, or tending to his wounds before he even got them, or damaging himself, and he needed to think that okay, Lucy – his best friend – had found him that job, helped him out of his shithole and she was always ready to call him out when he was wrong and didn’t want to listen; but that didn’t mean that Altair didn’t have on his own determination and good will, and once he was back on his tracks, he couldn’t manage on his own and stick to the speed limit.  
In school, on the workplace, or in life, Altair never was one of those supernova stars that you notice immediately; he was more of one of those small but luminous stars that everyone in the beginning mistakes for a commercial plane, and then realize it’s not moving and that it’s actually a star, indeed. One needed a lot of spirit of observation and an avalanche of patience with him, along with steadfastness and some tact, once in a while. But given how things had gone and how he spent his last years, no one, in between the people who knew him, would have objected to this:  
Altair deserved that chance.


	5. Chapter 5

_October, 2016.  
New York City._

 

Malik had slept alone, that night.  
Coming home after Altair’s more or less gently declined offer, he had found the apartment deserted; no traces of a woman around. He felt relieved, thinking that he was looking forward to spending a pleasurable evening in solitude, without conflicts, screams or tears. That smell of peace inebriated him to the point that he forgot about Holly way too soon, thinking instead that he could do with a relaxing shower and dinner with frozen vegetable soup; he was too lazy and too sleepy for more than that. He looked again at his phone when he was already lying down on the bed, with an arm behind his nape, turning towards the empty place at his right and realizing, just in that moment, that something was effectively missing. Malik called Holly and let the phone ring for a long time, until the call automatically ended. She didn’t answer and he didn’t try again. Instinct was telling him that neither of them wanted to talk with the other. He sighed, finding it ridiculous that in that entire story she was the one feeling offended. He sent her a text: _call me tomorrow_ ; the usual synthesis. He let his phone drop without too much care from his hands to the sheets, then he curled on himself in the bed and closed his eyes. Malik admitted, without feeling any guilt, that he didn’t miss at all the person that at this point he found hard to identify as his partner. He had understood that he didn’t want her around anymore, not even just for sex, that had been suffering for a long time from their conflicts. The few times when – in the recent past – they had managed to satisfy each other, the payoff had been rather mediocre after all; like touching a peach skin with disposable gloves. Malik knew that it was a really bad sign considering that, usually, he had a tendency to excuse some aspects of people who certainly weren’t perfect, but at least could pleasure him properly.  
In this case, instead, not even excuses were left and, with eroticism dead as well, they only communicated through dry sighs. But Holly had to understand it herself; she had to find the courage to admit it and behave accordingly. Malik had already started his personal countdown: he started figuring he’d give her two weeks, but after a day, he already lowered that bar to seven days. If nothing really changed, he would have been the one to shatter the glass of shame, putting an end to that pantomime without an aim that was becoming even more insufferable than advertising on Spotify.  
It was just before letting himself fall into Morpheus’s arms he thought that that strange evening made of cold drafts on his back and frozen food seemed a bit too sad even for him, who found solace and recharged in solitude, both physical and mental. _Maybe I could have done with a beer down at the pub_ , he thought. But the idea that in order to get his lips wet he’d have to suffer through Altair’s company immediately dissuaded him and confirmed him that refusing Altair’s invitation had been the correct choice. So, with the peace brought by the knowledge of being right, Malik, feeling bone-tired, let his head fall back on the pillow and only saw the blackness that has concluded man’s days since millennia.

 

Malik was heroically handling the perception of his body attaching itself to Michael’s round and soft one. Regular people called them hugs, he called them suppositories. Michael moved away, and slapped him on the back twice while his stare fixed itself on a specific part of the young man’s face.  
– Did you sleep badly? You look tired. –  
Michael asked, like a father to the son who has pulled an all-nighter to get ready for a final.  
– Tell me how _you_ are doing, instead. –   
Malik replied, moving towards the changing room and feeling the heat left by the hug around his body slowly disappear. Michel coughed lightly, slowing down.  
– I started on a couple meds yesterday. For now the lumps are under control. –   
Michael had talked before about three thyroidal lumps – benign, for now – confirmed by his recent ultrasound, but he hadn’t specified how big of a menace they actually were. That said, the doctors had prescribed him meds, so… did they have to worry?  
– Wouldn’t you feel better at home? –   
Malik asked, stopping in front of the changing room’s door. Michael smiled.  
– I’m fine. I like being here, at work. –   
Michael’s tone of voice betrayed a small hesitation.  
– Helping Lucy out and everything else. –   
He finished, wrinkling his lips and joining his hands behind his back. Malik grabbed at the door’s handle with a patient smile: for now, he was going to let Michael win this battle, but he’d better take care of himself, or Malik wouldn’t have forgiven him.  
– See you soon, then. –  
Malik lowered the handle, and Michael winked at him, going back the way he came from. That man had the courage of a lion. While he still was getting inside the room, his eyes lowered, Malik felt Michael’s observation ring in his ears: _you seem tired_. He thought that Michael was right, but he knew that the origin of that tiredness didn’t lie in his lack of sleep. He was tired of things, people, of what was going wrong, of his bad mood, of his bitter thoughts, of time passing too fast and time that never passes instead. Malik raises his eyes with a sigh and realized that he wasn’t alone in the changing room: Altair, with his bare chest and tracksuit trousers on, was standing in front of his locker and was staring at him; it was as if he was waiting for Malik to notice him. Malik stopped automatically, trying to make sense of the situation and looking at Altair with a glare that had a hint of reproach in it.  
– Hi. –   
Altair greeted him, same as always, without hurrying with covering himself up. Malik let his stare linger on his colleague’s pectoral muscles – a line that seemed drawn in ink, moving downwards towards his abs. He knew, in passing, that Altair was into sports and he had always deduced from looking at his body, however covered in clothes, that he was a very fit man; but reality surpassed absolutely what he might have imprecisely expected. _Mh, nice_ , he thought, but the lack of elegance of the rest of the picture was ruining the dream-like situation. Malik cleared his throat and finally moved his eyes from Altair’s, reaching the bench in the center and putting away the backpack.  
– Do you have some issue with exhibitionism, don’t you? –   
Malik immediately remembered what happened in the bathroom, when he had come this close to judge the size of Altair’s dick.  
– Hm? –   
Altair muttered, having gone back to changing his clothes. Malik shook his head, taking the locker’s keys from his backpack.  
– Never mind. –   
He cut him short while opening the locker; there were enough problems occupying his thoughts already.  
– Have you seen, Michael’s here. –   
Altair said, breaking their usual script and starting the conversation himself. As he heard Michael’s name being pronounced, Malik’s lips curled.  
– Yes. –   
He answered in a light tone, as he recalled the warmth of Michael’s arm around his neck. It was sweet, the way he gifted care to everyone.   
– He got started on some therapy. –  
Malik added, masking his worry with hurry. Altair slipped into the white t-shirt, interpreting as a personal victory the fact that Malik had replied to him with more than a monosyllabic answer, without going immediately for his throat.  
– Hm, hm. –   
The young man with the six-pack said. Then Altair yawned making a certain noise, the way you do when you’re alone in your room at midnight. His night had included everything but relax. Malik’s refusal to his proposal to get beer together had left him more unsatisfied than he had thought it might, but he had realized it just before getting home, just in time to change his plans; with his throat becoming more dry with each moment, Altair had moved beyond his block and slipped into one of the clubs in his area; some with green lights, others with red.  
– Did Lucy give you longer shifts? –   
Malik’s question reached him as straight as a slap. Altair couldn’t believe that his icy co-worker had spontaneously asked him a question. But then he immediately thought that it was a work-related question, and his enthusiasm waned soon like oil on a frying pan.  
– Yes. –   
Altair closed the locker and turned the key. Malik, in order to avoid finding himself in the situation he was caught in while he walked inside, but with inverted roles, preferred to get to work already wearing his uniform t-shirt under his clothes. So, his only effort was to grab shoes and apron.  
– To you as well? –   
Altair sat his ass on the bench, on the side from where he could see Malik’s front, even if for now his co-worker was only showing him his back and indifference. Altair stared at his neck waiting for him to turn, noticing traces of ink emerging from the shirt’s white collar: probably a tattoo. He tasted the idea of lifting that white cotton off him to discover the drawing sculpted for life on his skin. Then Malik turned and, painted on his face, was the surprise of finding Altair at his back, sitting and waiting for him like a dog would his owner. He sent him a hostile glance, even if he understood that Altair was never fazed by such a thing, and then sat on the bench, not far from him. Altair was following his moves with interest.  
– Yes, to me as well. –   
Malik replied after an endless amount of time. The cook was riveting in realizing that, even if Altair and Lucy were friends and everyone knew that, his co-worker hadn’t received any facilitation. Malik was keeping his apron in between his hands, ready to slip it on, but his stare landed on Altair again, whose eyes staring straight at him kept on irritating him. Malik sighed and got ready to ask something along the lines of, _what the fuck are you looking at?_ , but then he noticed a detail on Altair’s face that offered him the perfect opening for an equally casual and rude observation.  
– You look terrible. –   
Put it like that, it sounded like a gratuitous insult, but the truth behind that remark wasn’t deniable: Altair had a certain sloppy air to himself, his eyes were read, and his cheeks had a color suggesting that he should be drinking some warm broth only. But regardless of the rude observation, Altair reacted as wellingtons under the rain do, given that he only could agree with him with an honest shrug.  
– It was an intense night. –  
Malik broke their visual contact and finally put on the apron. The only thing more irritating than the way Altair looked at him, was that he couldn’t hurt him with his sharp tongue. There was always something going wrong with him: an unforeseen swerve, a difference from everyone else, one smudge; pretty much, a continuous balance. Sometimes it seemed that he really was impossible to offend, but Malik liked to imagine that he merely was too stupid to realize he was being insulted. Anyhow, on the spot Malik didn’t really take notice of Altair’s reply, because he wasn’t really interested in hearing it. But then he realized that the echo of those two words, _intense night_ , was still buzzing through his head.  
And it started to get him curious. He was piqued by the thought that maybe Altair, after his refusal, had decided to go grab that beer with someone else.  
– Such as? –   
Malik asked, pretending that he was merely being polite in asking, and Altair felt like luck had finally submerged him: Malik seemed more amenable than usual to have a chat. Altair couldn’t waste such a good chance, especially given what topic he was about to touch. Altair decided then to not give in to hurrying and not providing the answer immediately – not yet. Better a clue, just to have a grasp of the situation and observe Malik’s reaction, so he could make up his mind.  
– A mix of alcohol and… nice company. –   
Altair pushed his back forward, his elbows leaning on his knees; he yawned again. He was really tired, but he was finding in Malik enough motivation to stay sharp. If his math was correct, if he had interpreted the cook well, and if he had managed to push on the right buttons, such an answer would have managed to bring Malik into a conversation; even if he couldn’t put his hand on it. Given how things were going with Holly, there was a fifty-fifty chance that Malik would perceive a topic such as free, casual sex as some kind of itch he couldn’t scratch, or as the only, unspeakable sin that he would have succumbed to gladly to get his spirit up. At that point Altair would have grasped at any straw. And _something_ did arrive, after all.  
– Hm. –   
Malik said before he tied the apron’s laces behind his back. The answer that Altair gave him had a semblance of objectivity, but he had too much experience and a good nose to smell this kind of thing to ignore the innuendo in between the lines. And now he was debating: either Altair was too transparent in his ingenuity, or he was smarter than he let on. In any case, the blow meant for Malik had struck where it had to, piquing his curiosity.  
– So, in the end, you went for drinks anyway? –   
Malik asked, focusing, for now, just on the first part of that mix Altair alluded to, which was admittedly the part that interested him less. Altair replied serenely, to the point of seeming distracted.  
– Yeah, I felt like it. –   
He said, knowing that he wasn’t being rude to Malik at all: he had refused his proposal, after all. But that wasn’t what Altair was interested in: he finally had a hook in with Malik. If that wasn’t a victory, what could it be?  
– Have you been to the pub? –   
Malik asked, against every expectation, striking Altair for the second time: he couldn’t believe that they were having a regular conversation about their daily life before their shift was up. In the three months after he was hired, Altair couldn’t remember it ever happening. So, right now, he couldn’t really afford to get it wrong, and actually he had to weigh in the consequences of the answer he had in mind, so that he could reach his target without ruining that extremely delicate balance in between _said_ and _unsaid_.  
– At a club. –   
Said Altair cautiously, joining his hands and turning towards Malik to establish a visual contact. Malik felt those eyes on him, grabbing him at the shoulders, forcing him to turn. He bent under that arrogance, figuring that the advantages were more than the disadvantages; at the word _club_ his imagination had ignited, feeding on his hunger to know more. He couldn’t imagine Altair in a club, Altair having a drink, Altair chatting someone up, Altair enjoying someone’s company. And he couldn’t because he was nailed on a level of perceiving the other that didn’t even reach uninterested superficiality.   
As he looked at Altair, Malik didn’t feel any flash of motivation that pushed him to get in deeper, all the contrary; Altair’s dull attitude and indolence always managed to broadcast haughtiness, same as that way of talking that was listless and stingy, as if talking was some kind of favor he paid the world and its inhabitants. Malik was sure that Altair was one of those people who think they’re better than everyone else, but he couldn’t figure out a reason and it made him angry. It was this discrepancy between sensation and day to day experience that irritated him, and had assured that Malik dropped Altair, since the first week they worked together, in the category of blowhards: those boring, characterless people who think they’re so charming or, worse, interesting, but out of the asshole’s charm, only maintain the asshole part of it.   
– I also wanted some company. –   
Altair added that small (not really) piece of information which at the end of it, in the secret thoughts of the both, represented the core of the question: for Malik, the curiosity that made him want to know with whom Altair had spent his time; for Altair, an excuse to make sure Malik knew the person he had been with had been a _man_. Malik paused his side activities and the useless gesture to focus only on Altair, who was staring at him halfway between indifferent and smiling: he had to attract him, but without putting on a show; Altair didn’t want him to know that he wanted him so much he was starting to become creative when it came to courting technique. With anyone else, either man or woman, he would have never dreamed of relying so much on innuendo and making everything implicit and, as far as he was concerned, just more complicated. He was adjusted to slam thoughts and feelings in someone’s face, if he was asked, and now Altair was putting a not so small effort into holding back and proceed as if he was walking on tiptoes.   
But now, danger was real, and if he was direct, Malik could be the same to him and reject him with a single word without leaving him any other approach, or another go at it, or a last, desperate try. He had to work on the subtext and the most classic kind of flirting to wake up some interest in Malik, seduce him, attract him, charm him, whatever synonym was good for him. Which was a procedure way, way longer and that required a lot of effort, for someone who was adjusted to just burn through things.  
But Altair cared about this a lot: he cared for giving Malik a reason to think about him, he cared for peeling off a bit of that epithelial cynicism to get to his more Dionysian part, he cared for slipping inside his thoughts and disturb him, to make him want until he couldn’t resist the temptation anymore, rather than resisting.  
– And did you find it? –   
Malik asked, interrupting the nothing that was passing between them. The cook let his glance slide over him, until he leaned down to change his shoes. Malik was tasting these moments, like you do when unwrapping a piece of candy in a theater: it takes a lot of time to do it silently. Altair nodded to answer him, but then noticed that Malik wasn’t in the correct position to actually see him, so he put a remedy to it with his voice.  
– Yes. –   
He said, as simple as putting two and two together. Then he felt like an idiot. He had given the most instinctual response, but also the least useful: he hadn’t thrown Malik any bait, no more inputs he could start from; it was merely a dumb statement that would cut the conversation, and it’s hard to reap if you haven’t sown. Altair thought of what he could add without making Malik suspicious, so that they could reach the core of the matter, the true point, the serious part of this, which eventually amounted pretty much to: _listen Malik, I’ve been with a man because I wanted to, I also fuck men, so I wanted to tell you that I know you have a girlfriend but maybe you’d like a ride, what do you say about it, because I have to say, I’d really like to bang you_. Ah, what he would have given to just take all of that and vomit it all at once, there on the bench, so he could just shatter _the core of the matter_ into pieces. But he felt like, no, actually he was sure, that this kind of approach would have just made all of his work useless, along with the effort, the patience, biting his tongue, the anticipation that tastes like sugar. Malik would have looked at him full of disappointment, with only one sentence written on his face: _absolutely horrible_.   
Altair could already picture the scene. He was so sure of what he had foreseen that he felt like it had already happened. And while Altair was dropping into the swamp of foreseeing, Malik, once again of his initiative, decided to continue that conversation with a rhetorical interrogative sentence, that gave Altair a chance for the perfect hook.   
That day, luck was certainly smiling on him.   
– She had to be real good, if she worked you this much. –   
Malik said it with the hint of a grin on his mouth and unexpected sympathy, while he was trying to slip on his shoes beneath the bench. Hidden in his voice, there was a smidge of envy, because Malik might have really been feeling like getting out of here and doing the same until well into the night. Altair’s eyes filled with a wonder that went beyond gratitude. Now he had all the right cards in his hand, in a shamefully perfect combination. He threw himself on the words themselves and leaned with his chest as if he was about to confess a secret – which wasn’t far from the truth, after all.  
– It was a _man_. –   
Altair said in one single breath, kicking finally away that weight with impatience. He was keeping his eyes glued on Malik so that he wouldn’t lose him, because now the surgical part started, as in, he had to interpret the cook’s reaction towards the news: would he have felt bothered? Curious? Indifferent? Altair had to know. Malik, on his part, was usually a fairly balanced type, but he hadn’t stayed indifferent to those four words that Altair had spread all over him like jam, except with a less sweet flavor. Altair’s specificity had been so steadfast and targeted that he didn’t have time to absorb the scope of that detail. Altair had told him that the person he had spent the night with had been a man.   
Malik put every single muscle in his face on standby, his lips thinned by an invisible thread. He didn’t know if he should interpret Altair’s comment as an objective and sterile correction, innocent and without pretenses, or like a suggestion meant to grab him by the arm and bring him somewhere he didn’t know. Malik remained under the sand, with his breath taken away by the bewilderment and held close by Altair’s pupils, which apparently didn’t want to let him run away anywhere. And so Altair could taste another victory: he had managed to put a dent in that fence of brutal stoicism Malik hid behind, who for the first time was looking at him lost, not knowing how to react. Altair’s enthusiasm waned soon, though, seeing that Malik’s reaction had been stunned but at the same time calm and reasonable, and he didn’t look like he wanted to give Altair anything more than his (silent) wonder. Altair, then, started reasoning: he wasn’t sure that Malik’s silence belonged in the system called _peaceful neutrality_ or if, on the contrary, Malik’s abundant reluctance when it concerned him wasn’t transforming itself into repulsion, hearing those news. The only thing that Altair could think of was that he’d have preferred a _well, fine, who gives a fuck_ to _this is repulsive_ ; which, everyone knows, actually means, _you are repulsive_.  
The shade of fear was there, he could feel it in his gut, but against all odds, Altair was thrumming for how much he wanted to talk to Malik again, ask him what he was thinking, how he was seeing him now, what had happened in those seconds inside him, if he would have been fine with Altair putting a move on him, if he liked it, if he didn’t, if he was frightened or interested, if he could come closer and show him he meant this.   
On the other hand, Altair wasn’t really that great with words, and with his twenty-sixth birthday nearing, he still considered himself a beginner when it came to the skills of explaining what he thought or felt; so, in case he got a green light or a pass, he would rather be very direct: to cut it short and possibly in a very trite way, and maybe almost crudely, he would have simply told Malik that he turned him on a lot. He wasn’t denying any of the times in which, before going to sleep, he had thought of him finding his own hand damp, imagining how it would have felt to take Malik’s clothes off him, touch him, kiss him, and a lot of other things he’d rather do to him instead of describing them.   
Balancing this excessive and grainy candor, there was Altair’s more rational and held back trait, the one that stopped him grabbing at his balls, and that is generally called self-control. He could understand on his own, indeed, that in this circumstance a harsh move would have been like a horrible smudge on a painting you’ve been working on for months. He didn’t want to leave impulsiveness any space here. In the same way he had studied his moves to get to this point, he had to keep on going: frightening or making upset the object of his desires wasn’t his target. It wasn’t acceptable. And while Altair was getting tangled in that mass of considerations, Malik kept on staying silent and feed on that masked embarrassment, looking at Altair the way you’d look at an abyss from its edge. He knew that one more step might have been fatal, but the charm of death wasn’t leaving, calling him to follow like a siren whispering into Ulysses’ ear. Malik was asking himself if everything Altair had just told him was true, and the hair on his arms stood up thinking that his harassing co-worker was playing hooky with him. Honestly, it was something he had never even considered.   
Both of them stopped counting the seconds, passing by like drops from a leaking tap. No one wanted to take a step on that bridge in between thought and action. That said, one of the two was certainly more impatient: nerves frayed by the wait and knowing what was at stake, Altair opened his mouth to speak and moved a bit towards Malik, meaning to close the distance. He focused on his co-worker’s lips, which had certainly been the focus on a few sleepless nights, and for a moment he thought he was a step away from doing something incredibly foolish.  
But then he was interrupted by the worst possible eventuality.  
– Bloody hell, guys, what’s up with this fucking weather! –   
Shaun barged into the changing room with the same grace of a leg cramp in the middle of the night, opening the door way too strongly, so much that the handle hit the wall, making both Altair and Malik jumped. And in the former, surprise soon left space to resentment.  
– My arse froze on the bike. –   
Shaun kept on, feeling cold like codfish in a supermarket’s refrigerator. He was rubbing his hands, still covered in his gloves, and his cheekbones were red and dry because of the cold.  
– Fucking bloody bad day to come in to work, huh? –   
The Brit finished, with a common rhetoric that didn’t make either of his coworkers feel obliged to answer. Altair stared at Shaun’s figure with something very close to hate, as he was guilty of having fucked up his entire attack plan. The interruption had been so traumatic and maddening that now Altair had no clue of how he could take back up that conversation. And even if he had thought of it, Malik demonstrated that he was smarter, as if he was glad of Shaun’s interruption, catching the chance to move away from the stalemate. The cook stood from the bench, without gesturing towards Altair or talking to him or staring at him; Altair tried to hold him back with his eyes only, but it didn’t work. A bit like when eating at a restaurant one is sure that the waiter is bringing their food and then it turns out it wasn’t because the waiter turns the other way and you lose your cool. Malik, not caring, ran his hands a couple of times over his work outfit and then turned his back on both of them, letting Shaun have his last words. Altair, who had been this close to the temptation of kissing Malik, almost felt bad for it.  
– See you in the kitchen, Shaun. –   
And with that Malik left the room, letting Altair stand back like an amateur actor digesting the shock of a bad audition. But Altair knew: Malik’s had been obviously an escape, and he couldn’t fault him for having caught that fat chance in his favor. The person he really wanted to strangle was Shaun, who was being as invasive as a gastroscopy, who had come in with a timing that couldn’t have been better decided, not even if rehearsed before. Grabbing Malik’s attention and even grab a small slice of his curiosity was already a feat in itself, and being forced to stare, without being able to do anything, at the ruin of such a chance wasn’t merely irritating him the way nettle does on one’s ass might, but was making him lose heart, opening the doors to a melancholy self-criticism. The kind, excessive and without mercy, that he reserved for himself in the moments when he felt like he was failing, as if he had missed the target, as if he had acted imprecisely and superficially, as if he had been too naïve. Altair closed his fists and remained there, head hanging low, trying to calm the rage he had been feeling moving from Shaun towards himself.  
– Hey, have you seen? Michael’s here. –   
Shaun asked, his teeth clattering still as he changed. Altair took in a tired breath: that one minute had been enough to make him exhaust all of his energies for the entire day. In his head, floated ideas about how he hadn’t managed to obtain a more appealing answer from Malik, about how to obtain a sign that might suggest him whether he was on the right path or if he had burst through the highway’s guardrail and he was driving against the flow in the opposite lane. It was eating him up, indeed it was, because he had noticed a certain hesitation in Malik’s eyes that was suggesting that he had lowered his guard. He was sure that with just a couple of minutes more, he would have obtained _something_ from him. But Shaun had taken that chance from him, and instead he had given Malik the perfect out to run away without bloodshed, avoiding the embarrassment of that declaration and the weight of having to elaborate some answer. Altair grabbed his hat from the locker, closing it again, the same way he wanted to close that parenthesis made of bitterness and defeat.  
– Yes. –   
Altair replied to Shaun briefly, managing to hold back a brusqueness to his tone that he didn’t feel like justifying. He left, silent, reaching the counter and switching his brain to the _operative_ function. And while he had a lot of work to do, as usual, he couldn’t help thinking about Malik, who was behind the wall at Altair’s back, in the kitchen, busy cutting, putting food in the oven, cooking, seasoning and, he really hoped, thinking about what Altair had told him. And in truth, it was exactly what Malik did for the entire morning: half of his brain was set on working, the other half was busy thinking about Altair’s words. Malik’s nature was analytical, and therefore he needed to analyze: so, was Altair gay? Maybe he was bi? As far as Malik was concerned, he always felt burdened by those labels that just turned one’s personality dry and most of the time made things more complicated rather than clearer. That said, the pseudo-philosophical basis was absolutely far-out, according to him: describe a person with just one word. Malik first and foremost had always been extremely fluid as far as sexuality went, from a very young age. He always went after pleasure for what it was, the pleasure without sides or specific parties. For him, what was worth was the intensity of what he received, and what was worth a lot less was the collateral details, the context and even the partner. He was all about content, not about its shape: and that was valid for sex, for any relationship, for life in general. And maybe it was because of this that it wasn’t often that he ended up in front of something that surprised him, for better or worse. That morning, too, when Altair confessed him that he had been with a man, it wasn’t that piece of news itself that had taken him by surprise and (admittedly) disturbed him for a moment; what had frozen him, had been Altair’s fixed stare on him, which gave him the impression that Altair was definitely elucubrating on something.  
Maybe a second confession to make? The doubt immediately seized him: maybe Altair really had a crush on him? In that case, he’d have very happily accepted to be told he was wrong, and admitting it would have seemed like a victory to him. Malik was hoping for this entire thing to be a misunderstanding because, first and foremost, Altair wasn’t his type – cool and presumptuous, the worst of combinations; and secondly, because they worked together and he was the kind of person who’d rather separate money and sex. Malik kept on thinking back on it for a long time, and while he was putting a tray of potatoes inside the oven he thought that maybe it wasn’t the case to rush too much and assume that what was merely a possibility was actually the truth. Waiting was a wiser course of action. And anyway, just because Altair might have been hypothetically gay, there was no reason why Malik should out himself in turn and reveal that yes, he had been with men, too, he also attended clubs where you had to show your ID and he also happened to partake in evenings in which the mix of alcohol and sex dragged on until dawn.   
But he and Altair weren’t friends, and so it wasn’t his business. As much as Malik was sniffing that Altair might be hitting on him, he was planning on leaving Altair on the side until he was more explicit about it, even just to put him on trial and see how far he was willing to go. He would have refused his attentions, but not the challenge. That was always the most amusing part.   
Malik drained the rice and put it in the giant tray, smiling as he thought that in the midst of all this confusion he was, in theory, still with Holly. He shrugged mentally, deciding that he had been waiting long enough and it was time to close the issue for good; he was the kind of guy who didn’t live well with falseness and ridiculousness. If Holly was really too scared or too much of a coward to break things off he would help her, doing the dirty part of the job himself. Malik wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty, actually, he was ready to do it that very day. Maybe at the end of this shift, while he was taking the subway home and taking a stroll on the damp sidewalk, before stopping at the usual coffee shop for a scalding hot Indian tea. It was time to take back some self-respect, and maybe he still could close that day with a success, a satisfaction, or a more elementary kind of delight. He was tired of dragging along in that unproductive apathy that had turned him into a different person, in which he could recognize himself less and less and, now he could say it for sure, he didn’t like at all. 

 

It was almost six PM. It was cold, and obviously no one wanted to be on the street.  
Altair was sitting on the check-out’s seat, distracted, and watched with disinterest the human ghosts that, shivering because of the cold, were walking along the street. He had switched in between check-out and counter with Shaun a couple of times during the day, but he never stepped foot in the kitchen. Once in a while he stared from the porthole, hoping to see Malik walk out, but he thought that his luck for the day ended in the morning. He needed to stop thinking about it. But the only one who had truly understood something was Oscar Wilde, when he admitted that the only way to resist temptation was to give in to it. The place was still calm enough, with the radio airing a Rod Stewart song, the smell of freshly baked falafels filling the air.  
– Hi. –  
Altair blinked, brought into the real world by that unexpected greeting. In front of the check-out there was a young man, with clear eyes and curly black hair, Mediterranean skin, a childish and blinding smile. He was wearing a blue heavy jacket and jeans, a scarf covering his chin and part of his teenaged, smooth cheeks.  
– Hi. –   
Altair replied, straightening and placing his fingers on the check-out’s keys, ready to press. The kid stared at him from under the scarf, with a smidge of curiosity.  
– Is Malik in the kitchen? –   
The boy asked the question with such sureness that Altair got confused by it; he let the blow land, and then cleared his throat, guarding himself from immature emotional abscesses.  
– Yeah. –   
Altair was dry and concise, like a pregnancy test. His fingertips floated over the machine’s buttons, not knowing where else to place them.   
– Do you think you could call him over here a moment? Please. –   
The young man asked, his thumb cocking towards the kitchen behind the saloon doors. The request made Altair want to reply with a clean-cut _no_. But the kid was still a client and until further notice, someone who was close to Malik – or who knew him, at least. Playing the jealous coworker wasn’t going to accomplish anything, actually, he’d have gotten out of it defeated even before the showdown. Without counting that the slightly-older-than-a-teenager in front of him was keeping on looking at him with a small, inquiring smile but well-meaning at the same time, and Altair’s aphasia didn’t seem to bother him. Anyway, Altair finally replied, but it was an entirely muscular response: he stood and left his place.  
– And you are? –   
Altair asked to the sweet, smooth-cheeked kid, without consciously trying to sound rude. The kid didn’t mind that potential misunderstanding, all the contrary; he seemed to be having fun in front of Altair’s attitude: moody, but not less scathing.  
– Oh, I’m sorry. –   
The kid was quick to say, as if he had just realized that he just entered dangerous, off-limits territory with a stretched leg; as in, the prey that Altair had focused on first.  
– I’m Kadar, his brother. –  
Altair suddenly turned off, like a mixer going at maximum speed whose plug gets pulled from one moment to the other. The fire that had lit him and the revenge that had clouded his thoughts crumpled on themselves and disappeared, merely vapor vanished in the air. His mouth remained half-open, having lost the intent to bite. A number of thoughts flashed into his head, first of all finding out that Altair had a brother, for once; his stare immediately changed, he sent back to the doghouse his territorial instinct and he started exploring every inch of the kid’s face. If he paid attention, there was something similar to Malik, but not to the point of being _so_ obvious: the kid’s traits were softer, less mature, his wavy hair, almost curly, didn’t make them look alike at all. And that wasn’t even taking the eyes into account: Malik’s were black as coal, so much you couldn’t distinguish iris and pupil; his brother’s were the opposite. They were clear, at first sight of a grey smudged in light blue.   
– Good. –  
Altair replied, moving past Kadar, thinking that he had been an idiot for having added even more weight on the scale measuring today’s bad impressions of himself that he had given others. Said in his usual dark and whispered tone, that _good_ sounded like a menace, as if he had been still defending his loot unconsciously. While he was imagining caning his own balls, he admitted that he had been definitely clumsy while handling the entire thing, and he felt ashamed. He rarely fell into such slip-ups. Today’s mix-up of things must have played a dirty trick on him, it was obvious. Altair ran behind the counter, then he sighed into it as he opened the kitchen’s door. He was struck by the heat and the smells, while Malik immediately appeared in front of him, leaning with his lumbar area at the middle counter, his face turned towards the enormous oven inside which he was cooking something, probably a vegetable or meat pie. With his arms crossed at his waist and muscles tensed to the point that you could see the veins along his forearms. Malik turned towards Altair, whose unexpected sight made him go still like wax under water. Altair took a couple steps inside and then stopped, letting his shoulders flop down like a blade of grass. For a moment, he was struck with the prospect of starting this morning’s conversation again: it might have been so unexpected for Malik that maybe he would have better chances of being heard. But instinct suggested him that it was not the right move, and so he pulled a brake on his instincts, letting duty call him back.  
– Your brother’s over there. –  
Malik’s forehead wrinkled in surprise, sure that he heard wrong.  
– What? –   
Malik asked, leaning forward; and not because he was looking for closeness, but Altair always used to talk in a whisper, barely good enough to suggest the impression that he had in fact spoken. Altair breathed some more air into his lungs and repeated.  
– Kadar. –   
Altair pronounced the name uncertainly, hoping he remembered right and that he hadn’t said some kinda bullshit.  
– He’s over there. –   
He added, nodding towards the door. His duty done, Altair took advantage of Malik’s reaction time to stare longer at that face with traits from beyond the ocean, the cured and perfect goatee, the lips drawn with a brush: he was really beautiful, nothing to add. Malik glanced at the oven and turned the heat down a bit. No answer left his lips, but it wasn’t any news. Malik left the kitchen, followed by a silent Altair.  
– Hey! –   
Said Kadar from the main room, raising his hand. Altair remained behind the counter, putting the food in its place, even if once in a while he felt the instinct to glance at those two, intrigued by the idea of seeing Malik in a brother’s unexpected role. Kadar placed a closed fist on his elder brother’s chest, as if he was fifteen or so. Malik looked at him with patience and a corner of his mouth raised upwards, but he still wasn’t rid of the surprise of seeing him there.  
– What are you doing here? –   
Malik asked, already imagining all the worst outcomes. It wasn’t normal that Kadar walked by the shop to see him without a reason. This entire thing smelled badly. The younger man sighed, disheartened, and answered with suspicious irony.  
– Now I can’t even come to see you? –   
Kadar started wobbling where he stood, one curl of hair bothering his forehead. Malik didn’t reply, or better, he did, but with the most diffident expression on his face. There was no way the kid could have the best of him, and Kadar knew that, too, and he immediately gave up because he never had been a good liar.  
– Okay. –   
Kadar started playing with one of the straps of the backpack he had on his shoulders.  
– I have something for you. –   
At that point Malik’s senses sharpened. He took Kadar by the elbow towards a corner of the room, to be far from the clients. He glanced at his back to check the surroundings: Altair was serving a client at the counter, while Shaun was at the check-out. Malik hated feeling observed, and he couldn’t stand noisy people and busybodies.   
– It’s from Holly. –   
Kadar minded the tone, but this didn’t stop Malik’s eyes from vibrating. Kadar slipped a hand inside the backpack and took out a letter, closed but not sealed. Kadar held out his arm and tried to look convincing. Malik looked at the letter first, then at Kadar, staring as if he was handing him a flyer just outside the subway. He wasn’t sure he wanted to accept.  
– Come on. –   
Kadar said, cocking his head.  
– It’s important, Malik. Postponing it won’t work. –   
After that enigmatic sentence, Kadar’s expression changed, looking like someone who has seen pretty much anything in relationships, which turned the scene at least ironic, if not flat-out ridiculous.  
– Did she say what it was about? –   
Malik asked, more bothered than curious.  
– I’ve read it already. –   
Kadar said, crystalline as naked pudendum. Malik opened his mouth, shocked, and just barely stopped himself from letting out a curse that Lucy would have heard from the office.  
– Wha-?! –   
Malik had managed to swallow the curse, but failed to control his voice’s tone. So he bit down on his tongue, and feeling caught in the headlights of his mistake, he turned towards the rest of the room, checking that he hadn’t disturbed anyone, coworkers and clients alike. Reassured but not calmed down, he huffed like a grizzly bear in the snow and tried to walk along the path of patience.  
– You read it? –   
Malik repeated what Kadar had already said as a question, still not believing what he just heard. And throughout that entire scene, Kadar was still standing there without moving with his arm held out and the letter mid-air.  
– Of course, she did give it to me. –   
Kadar said, with the certainty of someone pronouncing a geometry axiom.  
– I think it was personal. You’re a real asshole. –   
Malik tore the paper from his fingers and slicing the envelope like a hyena with a carcass. The thought of his brother’s interference was getting under his nails. And his brother knew how such a thing might make him lose his shit.  
– Don’t get offended. I just want to know what happens to you. –   
Kadar justified himself using the weapon of care, sadly not at all the kind that would work on Malik.  
– Shut up. –   
The cook replied caustic, without even raising his eyes. Inside the envelope he saw a piece of paper, filled with black ink halfway through. Then he noticed a different thickness, behind the folded piece of paper, and he was about to check what it was, but the sensation of having two eyes on him stopped him. He raised his eyes and chastise Kadar with his eyes: it was incredible how he didn’t have the slightest discretion.   
– For real? –   
Malik asked, as rough as wallpaper on someone’s ass. Kadar woke up from the sleep of ingenuity – or malice – and raised both hands, taking a few steps back.  
– Right, sorry. –   
Kadar said, smiling, while Malik had already closed the letter, bothered. He didn’t want to deal with it in that place and at that time.  
– I’m off in thirty. –   
The cook said, already turning his back on Kadar.  
– Just be good and stay here, wait for me. Eat something. –   
Malik concluded with a hand gesture towards the tables in the room, and more generically meaning _get out of my sight_. Then he slipped behind the counter to go back to the kitchen. He was grabbing that piece of paper with terror, anxiety and curiosity at the same time. He didn’t want to delude himself, but he didn’t even want to underestimate the situation. Whatever was written in there could be a turn of the situation or the umpteenth blow to his balls. Distracted as he was by his internal conflicts, Malik ran away so fast inside his kingdom of smells, warm and solitary, that he didn’t even notice Altair’s stare following him throughout the entire path. Usually Altair didn’t care for other people’s business, but he admitted that when Malik was the problem, his internal scale protested, pushing him to insist where in other situation he’d have taken a step back, to try to understand at that point where he could have found something better to do, to want to know how the other man felt like, and what he was experiencing, when for the rest of the world Altair only had annoyed yawns.  
Finally alone, Malik put the letter on the middle counter and for a few minutes he only cared for the food that was cooking and that he had neglected: he adjusted the heat in one of the ovens, he locked the couscous so it could cook in the steamer and turned over the vegetables. He stopped, staring at the ceiling and breathing warm air. He was calm. He was there. He was alone. He could get through this trial. He grabbed the envelope, that was already stained in grease and he opened it again, savagely. His eyes locked on the black ink on the piece of paper, running across it in a certain visual apnoea that left no space for anything else around him. _Malik, don’t think that I’m a coward writing you_ , blah, blah, blah, _…it’s obvious that we both made mistakes, but_ , blah, blah, blah, _to me, it’s certainly the best decision_ , blah, blah, blah. Shy as a hummingbird, the noise of rain droplets hitting the window joined the oils sizzling and the bubbles of boiling water bursting in the pots. It was starting to rain again. The climate at the end of October was hostile, with all its dampness and the smell of wetness, the icy winds and the sky the color of a cement slab. But Malik couldn’t care less, because right now he was living a resurrection. He put the piece of paper in between his lips just after he finished reading it, and he went back to the envelope. Inside, he saw the remaining of the day’s happiness: a fair amount of cash. Malik put a finger inside it and with his thumb he brushed against the green paper’s edge, enjoying the contact: the concept of justice did exist still in the world, then.   
It was his money, the money he was owed; and he couldn’t believe it.  
He had lost hopes in Holly to the point that at this point he only cared about ditching her, and if he never got the money back, it wasn’t such a loss. So, double surprise for him, a confirm that flowers can bloom even from shit, if you learn to use it as a fertilizer. Malik didn’t let himself lose his cool to celebrate, though. He closed again the envelope with the money and put it back on the counter. He tore Holly’s letter from his lips and went towards the wood oven, hollow and scalding hot; a few of the pizzas he was about to take out of it were cooking inside. He bent downwards and threw the letter inside the embers under them, enjoying the sight of the paper curling on itself and the words turning into ash. So many times he had broken things off with someone and he never regretted it. Holly wasn’t an exception: at the end, she managed to bring out the guts that she had missed until that point, but nothing else. At the end, like all the others, she was just a pretty face to which he could associate one number: the sum of months passed together between sex and _fuck yous_. Holly remained light years away from Malik, from being the kind of person that could satisfy him for longer than two seasons.  
What that _type_ was, though, was something Malik didn’t even know too well. As it always happens with human beings, no one always knows what they want in life; the only thing you’re certain of, is what you _don’t_ want. It mattered little, anyway, because now Malik was sure that that day which had started badly and continued even worse, at least was ending with a bang.

 

Malik was sitting on the changing room’s bench, fixing his jacket’s sleeves. He was ready. Even if it was a quarter to seven, he felt like he had the entire day in front of him: Holly’s news had rejuvenated him. He realized that he hadn’t felt so relaxed and serene in a long time, with his mind cleared from the clouds that keep the quiet away along with sleep during the night. Malik put his backpack on his shoulders and left the changing room, holding the scarf he would have donned the moment he was out in the open. Rebecca had taken his place in the kitchen after spending the afternoon doing administrative work, helping Lucy and covering Michael’s part. Shaun and Altair would stay until closing time, switching between counter and check-out. Desmond had taken his vacation days and wouldn’t be back before a week. The shifts were long and sometimes draining, the kind that leave little space for real life, but the pay had ben upped as a consequence. Malik crossed the hallway separating him from the main room, hearing the chattering of the clientele that was about to rise in the evening, since rush hour was getting close. He started looking around searching for Kadar and he spotted him easily. But what he saw made him grab tighter at his scarf, as if his hand just went through a small spasm: Kadar was sitting to the table nearest to the exit and the check-out, eating the last third of what seemed like a medium-sized kebab, and Altair was sitting in front of him.  
His coworker was leaning with his chin on a hand and seemed engrossed in hearing what Kadar was saying, his apathetic and waxed expression notwithstanding. Malik walked towards the table, stiffening as he remembered that, just that morning, Altair had pretty much confessed to him that he had sex with guys. Malik immediately chased that thought away from his head, trying to not cross it with Kadar’s picture. The hypothesis of Altair becoming somewhat close to his little brother was lightening in Malik the flame of overprotectivity. He didn’t like that they met at all, and how easily it was seeming to proceed; Kadar was quick to make friends, sometimes even too much, and he did have a thing for older men, the kind with a halo of mystery around them.  
And that, because Kadar was really, obviously, shamefully gay.   
– Hey. –  
Malik said, putting himself in front of their table like an undercover cop busting two drug dealers. Kadar looked at Malik with his mouth still full, while Altair stayed still as a statue, only moving his eyes in the cook’s direction.  
– I met Altair. –   
Said Kadar, who was absolutely looking like, along with the kebab, he was chewing on a certain teenage turmoil. Malik smiled very thinly, the kind drawing a _and who gives a fuck_ on one’s face. Kadar stopped smiling, turned serious and swallowed his food.  
– So… did you read it? –   
The indecision in Kadar’s tone as he asked almost made Malik feel tender for a moment: what a naive cub, to think that being dumped (finally) could make him feel upset. Malik’s eyes moved on Altair, and struck through him like a nail: he was ordering him, silently, to scram. Altair was good at understanding the message immediately, and left, trying to be as silent as possible. Enjoying the effect he had managed to gain, Malik’s attention went back to Kadar and with a shrug of his shoulders and a nod he was ready to say goodbye to the shop until the next morning.  
– Come on, let’s go. –   
Malik’s imperative pushed Kadar to immediately stand up, almost in a hurry, and run after his brother, who was halfway out of the door. Kadar stuffed the last piece of kebab into his mouth and clumsily turned, reaching Altair who was cleaning nearby and held out a hand towards him, to say goodbye.  
– Hey, see you soon. –   
Kadar spoke as he chewed and swallowed at the same time, risking to choke. Altair didn’t let the answer linger and grasped strongly the other boy’s hand; their chests met in a quick, manly greeting. Altair attempted a smile.  
– Sure. –  
Kadar turned and looked at Malik, who stood at the exit, the door opened: he was watching the scene with a certain scientific interest. Kadar grabbed his backpack, just one strap, and pulled it on his back. Malik let him pass first, then left the door behind him without turning. Altair, instead, lingered with his eyes on the two of them as they disappeared on the sidewalk, and he thought that the only person whose attention he would have enjoyed was also the only one from which he only received implicit refusals and explicit scolding. That day, things hadn’t gone as he had planned: he remained disappointed, and denying it would have been the same as telling himself a fairytale. Nonetheless, Altair regretted nothing: better a delusion than a regret. If Malik wanted to be subtle and play the game where you didn’t say things clearly, Altair would have played it that way; it wasn’t certainly his preferred option, but Malik was worth the effort. And at least, during that day, not counting Shaun’s involuntary obstruction, which had stopped things mid-way, Altair was fairly sure that he had sown a small seed in Malik’s mind. With a bit of luck and a whole lot of patience, that seed would be fed by the damp earth of curiosity and suspicion, so that Altair’s presence might bloom in the cook’s thoughts. Or at least, that was the plan; and that day, a potential resource had joined. Maybe, a helping hand. Malik’s brother, Kadar, seemed a nice kid: very laid-back, pleasant to be with, and smart.   
Maybe he could be a trampoline to reach his true target… 

 

– How are you feeling? –   
Kadar asked, ready to console any (improbable) emotional crisis his brother might be going through. Malik looked at him with ironic smugness, not knowing if he meant it or if he was joking, but it was irritating either way.  
– I’m fine. –   
Malik answered, with the most lighthearted tone on Earth. A waitress moved near their table, and the youngest stopped her with a gesture.  
– Sorry, could you bring us… –   
Kadar glanced at Malik quickly.  
– …two teas? –   
He added, with the tone of someone who picked absolutely at random. Malik glanced at him with surprise first, then crookedly. The waitress nodded, mechanically, and left with a tired smile. Kadar curled his lips upwards with satisfaction, strong in his well-meaning intentions, but less strong in interpreting what Malik would have wanted to drink.  
– One tea? –   
Malik repeated, disbelieving; in that moment, he could have absolutely drunk at least ten Negronis. Kadar shrugged, his face clear with an artificial but well-built innocence.  
– I thought you wanted to relax, talk a bit, chill. –   
Kadar pronounced those words as if someone was suggesting them to him. He wasn’t sincere at all. Malik sighed, tired of that charade made of pantomimes.  
– Are you seriously talking about Holly’s letter? –   
Kadar replied, stumbling and stuttering a couple of times.  
– Well, yes, sure, but… have you read it? –   
Kadar asked, leaning towards him like a spy revealing his secret mission.  
– Of course I read it. –   
Said Malik, as formal as a gravedigger.  
– Then I burned it. –   
He added, arching an eyebrow and giving his brother a loopy smile.  
– It was a liberation, I couldn’t wait for it. –   
Malik kept on, without sweetening a pill that was honey to him already.  
– I was just waiting for her to dump me. –   
Malik finished, with a certain complacent shade to his tone, tasting in his same words the sweetness of feeling newly as light as April wind on one’s face.  
– So, are you telling me… that you’re happy? –   
Kadar hesitated, as if he was afraid of getting his remark wrong. Malik smiled, using a hand to take off the scarf he still had around his neck. The place’s warmth was already seeping under his clothes.  
– Never felt better. –   
Malik confirmed, feeling proud. A world opened for Kadar: he leaned against the fake leather of the coach and he laughed, probably at himself. He remained in that relaxed embarrassment for a few moments, biting the corner of his thumb while he was staring at Malik with different eyes.  
– Then we should celebrate. Right? –   
Kadar asked, skimming on the side of risk, but feeling confident. Malik perked up: eventually, he had understood.   
– You were the one asking for tea, idiot. –   
After Malik’s remark, which sounded like a reprimand, Kadar immediately strived to make up for it, and started looking for any of the girls walking back and forth through the room. He explained that he wanted to change his order and when he was asked what would the new one be, he glanced at Malik and with bright, full smile he established again the equilibrium for the rest of the evening.  
– Beer? – 

 

The difference that slithered like a snake in between the two brothers was visible not just from their looks, but also in their tastes. Having passed one hour since they took place, in front of them lied two empty beer mugs, or almost: a German pale blonde, sweet and golden, for Kadar, and a bitter dark ale, Belgian and spicy, for Malik.  
– Anyway, you’re so lucky. –   
Said Kadar playing with the glass’s edge, with the smile typical of the end of the first pint on his face.  
– Why? You’re single, as well. –   
Malik asked, hoping that he wouldn’t receive a sudden and resounding update on that situation.  
– Yeah, but you know… –   
Kadar shook his head to formulate that thought again. Malik smiled, without giving him time for it.  
– And you have so many _buddies_. –   
Malik added, turning the last word into a _mirepoix_ of innuendos and provocation.  
– A-ha. –   
Kadar smirked like someone who was not going to play that game.   
– I know that you meant _fuckbuddies_. –   
The younger of the two parodied, regressing back to about eight years old and concluding:   
– You’re just envious. –  
The place was more crowded than before, people coming in and out like dust during spring cleaning; the lights were low, opaque, and the smell of melted cheese of the jacket potatoes was mixing with the sugary fragrances coming from the scent diffusors on the wall.   
Admittedly, it was a pretty disgusting combination.  
– Hm, might be. –   
Said Malik, sighing, placing his chin on his palm, too lazy to react.  
– Oh, about that… –   
Kadar leaned forward, his back pushing ahead, as he always did when he was about to say something very stupid or… no, just very stupid.  
– …that Altair guy is cute. –   
Yeah, pretty much.   
Kadar pronounced that comment with a white-dressed spontaneity, but Malik’s eyes took a red tint and moved from defense to attack.  
– Oh, come on… –   
Malik played first the condescendence card, just so that he wouldn’t immediately kill with ferocity his brother’s love-at-first-sight moments, which you could count on the fingers of one hand with effort, weekly. A young kid who was definitely too impressionable, and who, as if following a script had a contacts list as long as a toilet paper roll and who was very much into different types: from the magazine cover pretty guys to dark, tattooed men; from gym aficionados with a bright smile to nerds with glasses and a case of scoliosis, from silent intellectual types to the rude people who can’t get a relative pronoun right; from the louts that measure their self-esteem on how hard they can barf to the guys with doe eyes and bright eyelashes who use Chanel as deodorant. Along with an honestly impressing immunity to racism, discrimination, prejudice and bullying; or, more simply, the banal admission that as much as dick was involved, they were doable.   
– Well? Haven’t you seen him? –   
Kadar was more incisive at this point: he wanted to defend his judgment.   
– You can’t certainly say he’s ugly. –   
The younger added, stung, because it certainly wasn’t normal that such a specimen passed under Malik’s eyes without being noticed. Of course, Malik wasn’t the same as Kadar (true), but he also was a true master in feigning disinterest (even more true). The cook was a lot more selective as a person, and even demanding; that it was for one night or a long-term relationship, it changed little. Even if that depended on his hunger, too.  
– I never said he was ugly. –   
Malik put a stop to his personal dislikes; he didn’t want to become the kind of person that allows impartiality to fade behind a whim. Altair was a very handsome young man and from what he had seen that morning, he also had a damn nice body. He wasn’t going to deny it.  
The problem with Altair was everything else.  
– Why have you never introduced us? He wasn’t there when the shop opened. –   
Said Kadar, disappointed. Malik huffed, tired of his brother’s childish antics.   
– He’s been only working for us for three months. If you dropped by more often, you’d know. –   
Malik threw that dig like trash outside the door, waiting for Kadar to pick it up. The corners of the mouth of the younger man fell down.  
– Come on, you know that it’s not in my area. –   
Kadar tried to pull off the puppy dog eyes, belonging to the German Shepherd puppy who just peed on the living room’s rug. But Malik was no dog lover, and he loved bullshitters even less. His stare stayed inflexible, confirming his negative opinion.  
– And on top of that, I was busy… –   
Added Kadar to justify himself.  
– With work? –   
Asked Malik, masking his sarcasm with curiosity put on as a front.  
– I mean… –   
Kadar stumbled, not knowing what else to add. He wasn’t much good, differently from Malik, at putting together a solid and convincing excuse in a few moments. _Too honest_ , a tender heart would have said; _too foolish_ , a crude realist would have said instead.  
– Hm. –   
Malik said, not really convinced, crossing his arms over his chest.  
– So I imagine that this month you didn’t need to ask Mom for any money. –   
Malik pressed on, knowing very well where and how he should strike.  
– Okay, I didn’t work _that_ much… –   
Kadar kept on dribbling excuses and contradictions, making the spectacle even more embarrassing. Malik kept on looking at him without pity, and Kadar finally leaned back with his torso, like a child who knows that he has greatly fucked up, in front of his father. He was ready to sign his surrender.   
– All right, all right. Sorry. I need to show up more often, you’re right. –   
The intonation was forced, but the intention was honest. Kadar knew when it was the case to throw in the towel and admit your faults, especially if the cause was rooted in their genetic and incurable laziness. Malik’s stare became softer as soon as he felt Kadar yielding. What he asked was just a bit more of attention and acknowledgment, things that Kadar, in his perennial indolence and distraction, often missed like a way too far target. Then, a dense silence came upon them, curling around the brothers like a bubble of privacy even if they were immersed in the chaos of a good pub in the midst of late happy hour. Malik was oscillating in between keeping his distance and completely releasing his stress using a channel that wasn’t only involving alcohol.  
– I missed you. –   
Those three words hit Malik straight in the gut, passing through the barrier of bone and muscle, and placating the turbulent waters caused by resentments. Kadar was smiling at him, transparent as air, with a couple curled bangs framing his face, making him look younger than he already was. Whichever reprimand Malik might have had for him even less than thirty second before, it belonged to the past already.  
– You, too. –   
It took Malik a bit of time to reply: he wasn’t so fast, when he wanted to be sincere. Kadar parted his lips, showing his teeth, in a small, satisfied grin. They were even.  
– Hey, can I have his number? –   
Kadar asked, winking, but Malik couldn’t follow him.  
– Whose? –   
Malik asked, confused.  
– Altair’s! –  
Kadar exclaimed, as if he was explaining how to have hot water come from the tap. Malik rolled his eyes backwards, huffing so hard his soul might as well have left his body. This was starting to worry him: he couldn’t believe that Kadar was still thinking about that, especially considering again the fresh information that Altair had shared with him that morning. If his coworker was really into men, and Kadar really meant to hit on Altair, he couldn’t imagine how the situation might end. He chased those mental images from his mind, they would probably make him have nightmares, and answered as concisely as he could.  
– Again? If you’re still interested, ask him yourself. –   
Malik said, absolutely not wanting to be involved in that mess.  
– I wouldn’t advise it, though. –   
He added, same as a judge that pronounces the sentence.  
– Why? What’s wrong with him? –   
Kadar was already about to defend a guy he didn’t even know: the fact that he had trained arms, a six pack, an interesting face and a fascinating mix of charm and surliness was more than enough to ignore the rest. Malik moved the pint’s glass from himself, trying to sound impartial. In truth, having perceived the danger coming from Kadar’s fantasies, he wanted to make sure that that smell of _come on I’ll make a move on him I have a good feeling about it_ wouldn’t turn into a smell of _Christ, I did a total idiotic thing_. Malik was sure that Altair wasn’t a good person to see. Why he was certain of it, was not the topic of that conversation.  
– He’s full of himself. –   
Malik started, coming up to speed without hurrying, and looking to the side to mask the impatience of wanting to list all of the worst adjectives he kept for Altair.   
– He always thinks he’s right and never listens to advice. –   
Malik added after a pause. Better to make Kadar believe that he had elaborated those remarks in depth before throwing them like stones on a coworker’s reputation. Still, when his eyes met Kadar’s again, the younger man wasn’t looking too impressed.  
– Wow Malik, he sounds just like you. –   
Kadar replied, with a smartass smirk and the evident effort of trying not to laugh too loudly. The dumb insult – but entirely unexpected – made Malik’s seriousness lower, forcing him to let it go for a second (and a half) but still remaining faithful to the effort of not letting Kadar notice him smiling too much because of his joke.  
– Fuck you. –   
Said Malik with a gesture of his hand, as if he wanted to get rid of Kadar the way you would with a three-year-old. Kadar smiled, showing pride for having struck that face so though and always too dark.  
– What else? –   
Asked Kadar, still ironically, but walking on the thread of balance: he could afford to sting Malik, but without causing an extended irritation. Malik was looking downwards, slowed but not stopped in his target; it was easy to take back the conversation from where he had been interrupted.  
– He’s extremely boring. –   
Malik kept on, clearing his throat, back in the field.  
– He never speaks and when he does it, it seems like he’s paying you a favor. –   
He tried to ask himself if even that characteristic of Altair’s might be superimposable to his own personality. But time was little, and he opted to not give himself an answer.  
– And then, he seems a very superficial kind of person. –   
Malik ended it there, thinking it could be enough. He didn’t matter if half of what he said came from a superficial knowledge of Altair. He was strong with his impressions, and history had taught him that when he put together gut and intuition, he was rarely wrong. Kadar stared at Malik with a charmed smile, which had no reason to exist given what considerations about Altair Malik had just shared.  
– Cool. I like it. –   
Nothing. Malik hadn’t even put barely a dent in Altair’s golden statue that Kadar had built in his mind. Malik would have rather accepted that Kadar did it out of childish pettiness, following that ancient ethological mechanism that forbade that in between two brothers one would admit that the other was right. Malik sighed, aware that he had no other cards to play, but consoling himself thinking that, most probably, Kadar only had to ride out the enthusiasm at the sight of that couple of nice muscles of Altair’s that he had glanced at.   
So, a matter of a few days. Even hours, if luck was with him.  
– Wait, is he straight? –   
Kadar asked like a thunder with a clear sky, crunching his eyes as if some detective looking at clues on the crime scene. Malik’s memory jotted back to that morning, when Altair had so candidly confessed that he was into allowing himself hot evenings made of alcohol and gay sex.  
– Leave that be. –   
Malik tried to weasel out of the conversation like this, with a comment that wasn’t really an answer but didn’t leave much of an opening for any other clarification. But Kadar wasn’t having it, as predictable as rain on wet ground.  
– Got it, I’ll ask him myself. –   
Kadar’s determined eyes were unsettling Malik.  
– I thought you had come for _me_. –   
Malik said in a sincere lament. He was tired of standing Altair’s insertion in their evening. Kadar read the signal and realized that he had to put his hormones on pause.  
– But of course! –   
Said Kadar, this close to screaming it, as if a higher tone of voice made it more convincing.  
– I’m all yours tonight, whether you want to cry so hard you pass out or party like there’s no tomorrow. –   
Kadar laughed without taking himself too seriously, because by now he knew how Malik’s relationships worked like, when he went as far as getting into one: he never got attached enough to feel sorry. He envied him a bit, and he pitied him a bit at the same time. But those were considerations he could only discuss after the third beer. Malik smiled, thinking about all the ways they could enjoy that evening together after not having seen each other for such a long time. One of the girls walked by and took their empty glasses away, asked something smiling and then left. Malik remained immersed in the room of his thoughts; the music from the speakers was airing a pop-rock 70s playlist and without understanding _how_ , his thoughts went back to Altair. His confession from that morning reminded him a _vice_ he had abstained from for a long time – admittedly, since he got involved with Holly. It came back to memory like a sweet smell, then like a whim that’s impossible to resist. A tingle that spread from his legs and arms to his insides, reaching the lower areas and that triangle closed in between his legs.  
– I was thinking… –   
Malik started, a little more than a whisper, the way tempting demons do. Kadar got curious and moved closer with his chest, so he wouldn’t miss a word.  
– Do you remember the Pink Unicorn?⁽¹⁾ –   
Malik’s lips were smiling, cunning, while just pronouncing that name was bringing back to memory damp bodies bathed in light, vodka poured on skin, red lights hiding desiring hands, ready to touch the back of the jeans of the most charming customers.  
– Fuck, of course! –   
Kadar exclaimed, his eyes going wide. Malik definitely had him on board.  
– Do you actually want to…? –   
Kadar couldn’t even finish the question, taken by adrenaline’s tremors. Malik smiled again, satisfied because of how easy it had been, and already impatient at the prospect of letting himself be hit by an evening made of excesses, the kind of evening that make you forget why you always lose so much time asking instead of just taking.  
– Yes. –   
Said Malik, locking his lips, just to create a bit of suspense in between them. Kadar’s impatience was now his, and he could manage it. Malik joined his hands on the table, breathing an answer that got lost in the air, in the music, in the smell of malt. It was going to be their evening and it could have lasted all night, if they wanted to. They could have kept on being adults the next day, and the ones that followed, but for now it was time to go back in time, at that age where everything is allowed and you obtain everything without asking for anything in return. Malik’s smile was shining with warm memories and great expectations, his eyes were thirsty and shiny, and they fed on uproars of a desire too easy to imagine.   
No one could stop them; and no one should have done it. With a last sentence, Malik blessed the evening, consecrating it to humanity’s oldest philosophy: the one saying, _who gives a fuck_.  
– Let’s go be bad boys. – 

 

⁽¹⁾ Fictional gay bar in NYC.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music Malik's listening,
> 
> Nicolas Godin - Orca
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sw-SKYcJlGQ

_October, 2016.  
New York City._

– When are you leaving? –   
Asked the man with the barely-there moustache, leaning against the doorframe with a towel tied around his hips, his damp hair from which a few water droplets fell, wetting the wooden floor, and a smoking hot mug of coffee in his hand. He looked like he had just walked out of some porn magazine more than out of a shower. Malik was putting on his shoes on the bed’s side, with his head bet down and thinking hard on the fastest path to work that would have spared him from wasting a metro ticket. It wasn’t that far, after all.  
Malik raised his eyes just out of manners, distractedly, but enough to notice that the cutie with green-ish eyes and brown hair was wearing glasses now. The previous evening, he must have been wearing contacts, he deduced. In any case, he thought they became him: the two thick black rectangles on his face were in perfect contrast with the clear color of his irises. Malik lowered his head back down again, feeling the flea of hurry slipping inside his hair. He hated being late.  
– I’m already leaving. –   
Malik finished with his shoes and jumped up on his feet, slipping his backpack on – it was lighter than usual, since he hadn’t gone home that night. He had dressed in a hurry, and it was obvious enough: the shirt he had underneath had the sleeves upside down, his sweater was wrinkled and the jacket’s edges made it clear that it hadn’t been hung. At least, he had managed to use the bathroom and fix his face, which had resented the excesses he had let abandoned himself to for the last twelve hours. For the rest, the smell of sex was going to have to stay with him until the evening: a shower would have kept him too long, and he already had little time.  
– Don’t you want anything? –   
Asked the man on the doorstep, enjoying the other’s hurried stride while he was swallowing some bitter coffee. Malik, who had reached him by now, balanced gratitude and disinterest with a benevolent expression.  
– No, thank you. I have to go. –  
Malik was about to move past him on the doorstep, but the man wearing the towel stopped him with an arm extended until the other side of the door, where he put his hand, stopping him and forcing him to be quiet. The cook stopped brusquely, bothered at the idea of being caged. He looked at the man in the eyes with an expression that asked, _what?_ The other was smiling though, as if he has foreseen that it would happen. He wasn’t going to keep him here. He just wanted to say goodbye… better. With everything they exchanged that night, a simple goodbye was nothing. He handed over the warm and scented mug, inches from his face, making the smell of caffeine go directly to Malik’s brain.   
– Come on, just a sip. –  
The guy kept on smiling while the light from the window was landing right on his chest, smooth as if just out of a treatment at a beauty parlor. The towel’s edge was perilously low, and something in the man’s eyes suggested it was a choice made on purpose. Malik sighed, staring at him like a teenager who was just ordered he _has_ to finish the broccoli in his plate.   
It’s not that he didn’t want the coffee; but…  
The man played his last card and winked, trying to convince Malik with wink. Malik, already imagining the taste of coffee on his tongue, decided to keep on going with the philosophy of the night that had just ended, as in, _who gives a fuck_ , and turn it into a daily _carpe diem_. So, cutting it short, he grabbed the mug; he didn’t spare a crooked glance at his suitor, guilty of having convinced him. Malik was maintaining a certain wild animal air to him, but the kind that comes closer if you work on them a bit. He latched to the mug’s edge and tasted the bitter liquid.  
– Hurry might kill you. –   
Said the man, who wasn’t trying to hide a certain enjoyment in noticing that he had bent Malik to his whim. The Syrian shrugged, thinking _even a man who is in a hurry might kill_. But at the end of it, the robust fellow had been nice to him and that night had done everything Malik had expected and desired, nothing more and nothing less. He wasn’t going to list him with the failures, but he wasn’t in a hurry to keep him close, either. As always, the trick was in balancing. Malik’s lips left the mug and he cleared his throat as he felt coffee run down his esophagus, ending straight into his empty stomach, exactly the way doctors advise against.  
– Thanks for the toothbrush. –  
Malik handed him back the mug. Now, the handsome brown-haired man really had to move that arm.   
– Out of anything you could thank me for, you’re choosing the toothbrush? –   
The young man laughed, scrunching his eyes, the corners of his lips curled upward, letting him known that he was just having fun joking. Very good, because Malik liked people who could laugh at themselves before they laugh at others.  
– I must’ve been really average, then. –   
The man stayed there, waiting to be rectified, and Malik accepted the idea of paying him a compliment: he smiled, a little cunning, and shook his head. He was a nice guy.  
– All the contrary. –   
Said Malik in a dry tone, like a pupil reading out of a history book.  
– But oral hygiene is more important. –   
Malik added, keeping the sly air of someone who has fun walking on the slippery wall of innuendo. The other appreciated Malik’s retraction and nodded slowly, softening the tension in the arm that he was still using to block his way out.  
– Give me your number and the toothbrush’s yours. –   
The guy wet his lips in the coffee again, chewing mentally over the memory of their bodies aligned in horizontal, vertical, diagonal. He wouldn’t have minded seeing Malik again.  
– Thank you, I already have one at home. –   
Said Malik, not breaking his own rule. Then the cook moved closer to the arm with his chest, still without touching it, but letting the other man understand that it was time to say goodbye and there was nothing else he’d get from him. The man with damp hair made a displeased face and relaxed his back’s vertebrae, appearing taller than he was already. He could interpret an answer, and he knew when insisting would exhaust the charge of seduction of persuasion. In short, he was an adult.  
– Pity. –   
He sighed, glancing at the bottom of the mug.  
– So, am I saying goodbye? –   
He added with the shadow of anticipation in his tone, suggesting that he was someone always ready to be surprised. Sadly for him, Malik had no spark to gift him, no encore, no _dulcis in fundo_. Established that their conversation was done, Malik was already diving over that tense arm in his way, but his movement was disturbed by the way more unexpected one of the man leaning against him, bending down with his face in order to reach his lips, obviously intent on saying goodbye with a kiss. Or maybe just to remember the taste of his mouth. But it was hard to catch Malik unawares with that kind of trick; he wasn’t the type of man who got himself charmed by easy romanticism or clumsy attempts at being hit on. It was possible to get something from him just if he wanted to give it. So, instinctually, he turned his face to the other side, fast but softly, avoiding the meeting with the other’s lips, in a gesture that was a blatant refusal.  
– Aah, so you’re one of the hard to get ones. –   
The big guy straightened up, leaning away from that face that he had kept so close during the night, while disappointment turned his eyes even smaller, even behind the glasses. He tried to laugh it off while he kept on smiling, knowing how to handle a rejection without turning hysterical. Malik, danger avoided, looked at him again, appreciating the maturity with which he had taken the hit. He wasn’t always so lucky. Malik put a hand on his almost completely relaxed arm, pushing with gentleness until it slipped away and the way was open to him.   
– I’m just one among a lot of others. –   
The man watched Malik slip away like water in between his hands. It was impossible to catch him.  
– See you next time, then. –   
Said the man as he followed Malik with his stare until the entrance, just after the hallway. It was spoken with a sincere hope. Malik didn’t turn back to look at him until he was in front of the door, and then he conceded him a last smile that he soon distorted into the bad habit of sneering.  
– Goodbye. –   
Malik was fast but not abrasive. He disappeared behind the mechanics of the reinforced door, taking a moment on the landing to take a deep breath. He started going down the condo’s stairs by pair, while he took his earbuds out of his jacket’s pocket to slip them inside his ears. He had a vague idea of where he ended up, but establishing which was the closest route to work… well, that was another problem entirely. He took his cellphone from his pocket and typed his destination on the GPS app.   
– Fuck. –   
Left his lips, spontaneous like a cough, while the sharp air of the morning was cutting his face. The sun blinded him for a moment, but the true bother was seeing that even with the fastest route on foot, he would have been fifteen minutes late, and the metro wasn’t going to help because the closest station was too far and it wasn’t worth going that way. Malik accepted the facts and started walking, worrying more about picking music that would fit his step and his mood. He was charged up and satisfied, strong with a fullness that had been lacking for a long time. He checked the missing notifications on his screen, reserving his first thought for Kadar. He typed a quick Whatsapp message: _how did it go?_  
Kadar’s last access to the app was around one AM, which was about the time they had said goodbye at the Pink Unicorn, each of them taking a different turn. Or better, a different companion. Malik stopped at the streetlight, turning up the volume, when the shuffle on his phone played Nicolas Godin’s _Orca_. The down tempo was the proper companion to the dry and luminous cold of that morning, and with his newfound cheerful mood. Even if, having to find a negative in all of this, it had been a long time since he had let himself enjoy a night like that, made of alcohol, liquid desires, unruly sex and men. He was aware that he had thrown himself into that quest lightly toned down and that he was out of shape, but nonetheless, he hadn’t wanted to spare himself, and he had accepted being squeezed to the last drop, opening his way inside, which he had not given attention to in a long time, giving himself to his chosen partner’s whims for a few hours of excesses.  
End of the story? His ass was aching.  
Every step was reminding him of it. That night’s effort had been fairly big, more in an anatomical sense than metaphorical. But in the end, the _who gives a fuck_ philosophy always won out: Malik was a fairly resistant type and he weighted pleasure and pain with different scales. He accepted the second to have access to the first. The music in his ears played notes on a synth, helping him to not live as a tragedy the unavoidable lateness that he was already warning Lucy about with a text. _No problem, Rebecca’s here already_ , his boss replied a mere ten seconds after he sent it. Malik smiled, thinking about how that woman with square balls was always impeccable, and his worry left way to memories, intersecting in between them like a cross-stitched piece.

Walking inside the Pink Unicorn had been easy. Leaving it, however, had been way harder. Maybe Kadar was right when he accused Malik of being too difficult, too choosy, sometimes even snobbish; but it was stronger than him and anyway it was a question of principle: only the people Malik found worthy enough could touch him to the point of being inside him – as long as he wished to include that kind of performance during the meeting. However, given how hungry he felt and the thirst for payback that had gotten hold of him that night, and taken by the euphoria of finally being free of Holly-the-pain-in-the-ass, Malik had actually picked very fast, compared to his previous average.   
The first drink had gone badly, as almost always happens: some drooling guy with eyes about to spill out of his eye sockets had planted himself next to him whispering filthy pick-up lines; definitely not his type. When Malik started on his second drink, Kadar had already found a companion for the night: young, a clean face, nice manners; details that one shouldn’t discard too easily, given the time and the place. Malik mentally approved – because if he hadn’t, he would have let Kadar understand somehow. It wasn’t an uncommon occasion that the protective streak Malik was a slave to could turn into tedious interception. But everything was going smoothly, because that guy seemed fairly all right, and Kadar liked him; so that’s what mattered. At the end of his second drink, Malik had run where the dancing was, knowing by experience that in between sweat and stroboscopic lights it’s way easier to hook up.  
And indeed, the guy with the towel that he had left that morning came closer to him pretending that their meeting – or better, crashing – of bodies had been casual, playing the usual lack of space card. A timeless classic. He tasted like vodka, blueberry and lime, like a by-the-book _cosmopolitan_ ; Malik could distinguish his light, clear eyes even in between the red lights of the ballroom. Both of them knew there was no need to talk: Malik pushed his hips against his ass and he kept on dancing all over him, as if he was begging the man to take him in a vertical position. The brown-haired man grabbed his hips with both hands and dragged Malik against him, following his oscillating movements. In a couple of seconds, their bodies were following the same rhythm; almost too easy. Malik took a bit of time to decide if he was worth the trouble, but the other man, as if he had read into his mind, immediately put himself to work on convince him, and he lowered his lips on the Syrian’s bare neck, opening his lips and sucking at him like ice in summer. Malik’s sighs got lost in between the progressive house music from the playlist, and the cook let the colored lights fade in favor of the black of closed eyelashes. Everything seemed to move far from him and become small until it disappeared, lost as he was in his shell of personal pleasure. Malik perceived one thing, though: the big guy really must have liked his warm skin and his loose ass, because he could feel the man’s fantasies pressing straight against his back.  
He was as turned on as a bull.

Malik was less than half a mile in the range of distance from the shop. Walking quicker, he had gained a couple of minutes, and when he walked inside the shop he had gained three on his initial lateness expectance. Not that anyone cared, because being late is always being late. Malik tore the buds off his ears, greeting whoever was at the entrance, and immediately slipped in the hallway to reach the changing room, which was of course empty. Everyone had already used it. He changed breathless, deciding that he would take back those three minutes so he wouldn’t die from lack of breath. And anyway, there wasn’t much to change into since he was dressed with the same clothes as yesterday, so the task went quicker than usual. He put on his shoes and left on his work t-shirt, white but not so much right now, given that he never wore it for more than one shift so it wouldn’t get greasy or absorb too many strong smells. He closed the locker and coughed a couple of times, feeling the coffee from before dig inside his stomach and at the same time lessening the post-ethanol effect that he has been dealing with since before. That night he gave himself a fairly good shake, but he had been entirely present with both head and body; actually, he was so lucid that his balls were tingling at the prospect of re-enacting the previous night. Malik checked his cellphone’s notifications once again before leaving the changing room; Kadar hadn’t replied yet. He probably was still asleep anyway. _The unemployed’s life is easy, isn’t it?_ , he thought; then again, Kadar only defined himself as _freelance_ to say he was doing something. Malik slipped inside the kitchen like a curlew in the nest and he started working, feeling like a phoenix rising again from the ashes: he had died and come back to life; he was whole, he was free, and he was himself again, he was _Malik_ again.  
– Hey Malik, do I help you with the meatballs? –   
Rebecca said from behind him, a breath away from him. He hadn't even heard her coming that close.   
– Oh, yeah, thank you. –   
Malik answered Rebecca, who was one of the best cooks he ever worked with: neat, efficient and quiet. The Holy Trinity made flesh. She smiled little, but when she did, at least it always had a reason. Desmond, instead, was a well-mannered young man and Malik really liked his sense of humor, which always hit unexpected. But Desmond was also always fairly slow in the kitchen, and you could see a mile away that his true calling was being a barista, not a cook. Trying to balance in between an excess and the other, sometimes Desmond was too insecure, and on the other too impulsive. Which was a very bad combination in the kitchen, and maybe in life, as well. In his defense, though, he was light years better than his cousin Altair, who seemed slow in the head and not just in his actions sometimes.  
– When is Desmond coming back? –   
Asked Malik, wondering how much longer would they have to cover for his shifts.  
– On Monday. –   
She replied while she cut the vegetables, better than an electric food cutter.  
– You can’t wait for it, can you? –   
She kept on, her lips bent. Malik couldn’t deny it.  
– Pretty much. –   
Malik bent down to take the case of onions.  
– How is it going with Lucy? –   
– Good. I’d rather have my hands in between food than paper, but I’m not complaining. –  
Rebecca turned over the chopping board and let the raw vegetables drop into the boiling mirepoix.   
– Michael came in this morning, too. I found him doing good, all things considered. –   
The girl said, scratching her nose, and with a tone that was looking for comfort in confirmation. Malik immediately understood her need and he nodded, while he was proceeding to kill the onions.  
– We’re all being positive about this. Him first and foremost. –  
Rebecca nodded, placing her closed fist on her hips, like a bouncer showing off.  
– Listen, we were thinking… –   
She started, modulating her voice like in an overture; Malik stopped chopping.  
– Shaun and I, I mean, we were thinking… if one of these evenings we went to grab a drink all together? –   
Malik perceived a hesitation in Rebecca’s voice, as if she felt ashamed of coming to him with such a proposal, in the absolute certainty that she would have received a negative reply. Partially, he couldn’t blame her. In the last weeks, Malik hadn’t been the most amiable of human beings. But it was also true that the agony was over, and he didn’t have any more reason to throw his gastric juices at his colleagues.  
Except maybe _one_ colleague.  
– I mean, just to spend some time together, that’s it. –   
Rebecca insisted, trying to convince him or, worse, to justify herself. That tight corner in which she had boxed herself hit at the softer side of the cook’s heart, who didn’t hesitate to make her life easier.  
– Sure, why not. –   
Malik said, blunt but well-mannered, and started chopping onions all over again. Rebecca leaned her neck backwards, like a heron seeing something unexpected in front of him.  
– Great. –   
She answered, unable to handle the overturn of her expectations. She was really surprised. Malik gave her a quick smile, just to convince her that he wasn’t faking it.  
What could he say, experience confirmed the saying: sex really makes your mood better.

And Malik had repeated that in his mind, like a mantra, that previous night, while he opened with a hand the door of the men’s toilet in the Pink Unicorn, with the brown-haired man attached at his back pressing on him, to make the entire process run faster. On the dancefloor, they had communicated more through glances than words, and what remained of that dialogue, to Malik, had been a hell of a hickey on his neck, the kind that someone would call bruises, and the memory of his hungry, large hands heading his hips in whichever direction and then move under his shirt, digging inside his skin.  
Malik wanted that warmth, that entrancing mood, that wet frequency. He only asked to be taken and squeezed. On the dancefloor, after a few more movements of the hip, the two of them had moved apart. Malik turned to take a better look at his pursuer, as much as lights and crowed allowed. The upper half of his body looked fairly beautiful, he had a very pleasant face to look at, he looked like an adult in both body and manners. The brown-haired young man was this close to coming even nearer, probably to dance some more, but Malik really was in a hurry: he wasn’t exhausted just because of the day’s waiting, but because of the waiting that had gone on for months at this point. He had to get rid of that amount of thorns, weeds and scutch that he had accumulated with time, and he needed someone to water him.   
Malik grabbed the bigger man’s wrist and dragged him with, getting out of the crowd with effort. He slipped along with Malik, following without protest, smelling already what the point of running away was. Malik turned towards the bathroom and went inside, hurrying worse than someone trying to catch their train while being late themselves. Another young man was bent over the sink, another was drying his hands, and another one was leaning against the wall with his eyes glued to his cellphone’s screen. Usually, walking inside alone meant needing to take a piss; walking as a couple, meant something else. It was then that the brown-haired man started really attaching himself to Malik, pushing him so he’d be the first inside the nearest free toilet, closing immediately the door with great turmoil. He was immediately on Malik like an octopus, grabbing his face worse than if it had been a basketball, and desperately latched himself to the man’s mouth. Malik accepted the invasion, ending with his back against one of the four walls of the cramped room. The bathrooms’ lights were red and foggy, ideal for piercing raptures and quick consummation. Malik opened his mouth for him, and it was soon full of the brown-haired man’s yearning tongue that was keeping him still, adhering to his body like a winter coat and slot him in against the smooth plywood. It wasn’t a problem for Malik: the compression was warming him, and brutality was turning him on. The young man could be as horny as he wanted, but the control was still in his hands, and he showed it to his partner very soon.  
The Syrian suddenly bared his teeth, nibbling at the other man’s lower lip, until he was stretching it. As he imagined, it momentarily put a brake on the wolf cub’s enthusiasm, and his back trembled along with his breath. Malik took advantage of that short parenthesis to let his hand move down on the other man’s hip, then turning it over to his chest, and then down again to his abs. Then he arrived where he was interested; he opened his palm in the middle of the guy’s legs and grabbed what was there: an erection that spoke for itself and on which he could have spread out a whole towel, if he wanted. It was swollen and impatient, and Malik couldn’t ask for better. The brown-haired man wailed like a dog, twisting himself all over him, bending his nape forward and getting in between the gap in between the cook’s neck and shoulder. He was panting in his hear like a sprinter under drugs and that was feeding even more that desire Malik had of being beaten like a carpet on the balcony.  
– Turn around. –   
He told Malik, grunting, while he was balling his fists on the wall, framing the cook’s neck. Malik smiled, finding stimulating the prospect of messing his plans: if the beautiful brunet thought that his ass was going to have a role in the dance inside that cramped space, he was dead wrong. Not because the idea didn’t excite him or because it never happened to him, but because his target was another. Malik wanted to spend the night immersed in the once lost Dionysian pleasure and nurse every drop. He wouldn’t be satisfied with a quick hook-up, this time; if he had to exceed, he wanted to make it last, and go slow. Which meant using some of his usual tricks: flirting and seducing, conceding something but not too much, intriguing without satisfying. If he had given everything at once to the evening’s partner, it would have been over in a few minutes. And the night was way (too much) longer than that.  
Therefore, Malik started to work just on that: he moved the brunet’s face away, denying him the skin of his neck that he was licking already, and he let loose his legs’ hold, freeing him. A whine of discouragement left the other’s lips, and Malik firmly placed his palm on the man’s chest, as large as a writing desk, enough to push him away lightly, to the opposite wall of the small bathroom. Now they were in front of each other and the big guy was looking at him like an elephant in his _musth_ phase. Malik put his right hand inside the pocket at the back of his jeans, taking out one of the four condoms that he had bought with Kadar at the vending machine inside the club. Two to pleasure his mouth, and two for his back. According to his math, they should be enough for the entire night. Malik raised his eyes to look at the other man, who was watching his movement with curious hunger. The Syrian was smiling, relishing as he was tasting all over again the pureness of a sharp eroticism that all those months with Holly had made him forget. He put his back against the wall, relaxing, and he brought to his lips a side of the thin plastic shell, biting on the easy opening. Malik’s eyes didn’t move from the man’s, and swallowed him in his irises, making his hunger Malik’s own.  
The brown-haired man bit down on his lower lip and immediately moved away from the plywood, wanting to fill with one mere step the distance in between the two of them, giving finally an outlet to his instincts. But Malik had already decided what was on the list tonight, and he couldn’t wait to flip over the other man’s expectations the moment he realized that the condom he had in his hand was the least lubed-up in between the two types he had bought. Malik put his arm forward, perpendicular to the rest of his body, and put his palm on the man’s pectorals, stopping him. He had to wait and enjoy the show. The other put the brakes on, out of frustration, but Malik found a way to keep him there with an inviting distraction: while he kept on keeping him at a fair distance with his arm, he opened the condom’s package with his hand and his teeth, making the other entirely focus on that process and making his head fill with filthy images of their imminent future. A bit like when you lean back on the bed to look at a beautiful woman while she strips: telling her to hurry up is pure madness. Once torn the opening to the magic circlet, Malik pushed the other man backwards, and he was back against the wall, his shoulder blades hitting it. Since he had both hands available now, Malik put the smooth and rubbery object out of the package and kept it firm in between thumb and index finger, taking one step forward to reach his chosen partner. The other man’s breathing was cutting through the air like an axe and his pupils were blown, two black olives.   
That was what Malik had felt missing for so long: desperate need.  
Malik draped his body on the other man’s, rubbing his crotch and chest all over him like a cat. The brown-haired man was eating him up with his eyes, and it was obvious that he wanted to make use of his lips as well to taste Malik again, and again, and again. But, having understood at once the intention, and having anticipated the rush of the other guy towards his mouth, Malik bent his neck to the right, denying himself and rejecting the kiss’s offer the same way a woman devoted to the Virgin Mary would have. His partner looked at him with lost and large eyes, the way they look when you’re trying to put together a piece of Ikea furniture without understanding the instructions. It was plain to see that the big guy was impatient and excitement was clouding his thoughts, but the Syrian liked a bit too much to indulge like a minx and being desired up until the point of violence; it gratified him, it gave him pleasure and it offered him an advantage: the power of keeping that young man close holding him by the balls, without even having to touch him.  
Malik put the elastic circle to his mouth and in between his lips, making explicit for the first time for which kind of exchange it was needed. His partner’s eyes opened up in joy and desperation. Malik descended vertically, ignoring hurry’s suggestions, and slipping down easily like a soft drink inside one’s throat. He finally landed on his knees in front of the other man, better than an altar boy during mass, making every second of waiting insufferable for the other man. Malik put his hand on the dark trousers of the handsome lucky guy and started to open the button, with the calm of someone who’s entirely aware that they are a damn good spoil and doesn’t give himself up so easily. Throughout the procedure, Malik had time to look at some of the graffiti on the wall: a lot of phallic symbols, a lot of swears, but mostly, names and dates of people who had met there, same as they had, and that exchanged something without needing to use money.  
The man leaned back his head with a sigh of fire when Malik finally pulled his zip down. It must be a true liberation for him, as his erection was taking up a lot of space by now. Malik came to his aid and took it out of his underwear, finding himself frozen inside a distant and blurred memory, when he went to that kind of club more than once per week, in the fruitless attempt of satisfying an atavistic appetite. Lately, he had dedicated himself solely to the feminine set of genitals, given his relationship with Holly. And still, finding himself on his knees with a fully erect cock in his hand and a condom in his mouth, it felt to him like not even a day had passed.  
It was like riding a bike: you never forget how it works.  
Malik closed his eyes and filled his lungs with that return to his origins: the freedom of taking that horny bull in his mouth because he wasn’t putting effort in staying faithful to a girlfriend that he hated; the freedom of doing it because he didn’t have to justify himself to anyone, because now he could follow his instinct and not his reason; the freedom of doing it just because he wanted it. Malik was taken away from those thoughts from his partner’s fingers slipping inside his hair. The cook looked up, with the ring tight in between his lips with which, soon, he would throw a party for that large and hot desire pointed at the sky. The two of them exchanged a look. The young man’s hand was caressing him with care, not pushing him in between his legs with insistence, which was already very appreciated. Malik hadn’t seen wrong: he was a mature guy.  
The Syrian gave the man a strange smile, since the condom in his mouth didn’t let him do otherwise, and he felt even surer of how he was conducting that entire evening – yes, because he had the reins in that moment. With a hand, Malik tightened his grip around the base of the man’s loaded dick, and then he planted the other on the man’s thigh. He whined in liberation as Malik’s mouth finally accepted that rigidity inside and he slipped down, up until the end, decorating it with the protective patina of the condom. Malik had learned to do that a long while ago, and no one ever complained; when having sex, he was an exciting balance made of knowing how to give and how to receive. And, more than others, he could enjoy both things. He wasn’t afraid to get dirty or to push his hands inside the murk, figuratively and literarily. Where others saw repulsion, he saw the defeat of inhibitions.  
The man’s fingers grabbed at Malik’s hair harder, while his head was letting itself fall back and his eyes closed like a roller shutter. So Malik started doing what he knew, letting his desire run along with his tongue, dancing with his mouth around that tower that shook at his every descent. The music’s basses, the laughter, the screams from the dancefloor where getting mixed together with the bathroom’s orchestra; you could hear sometimes the water from the sinks, or the hot hair drying someone’s hands, or the bathrooms’ locks opening.  
Malik went on, following the rhythm that his companion’s breath was dictating, and of the hand on his head that was accompanying him up and down, but without ever being rude. Malik was pretty much certain that his performance would have served well his needs: the plan was making sure his partner would want more, and the rest, too, so that he’d ask – or maybe beg him – to move things forward in his apartment.  
Malik had enough self-esteem and experience to not fear a different turn of events. And so, he and Kadar would have said goodbye to each other in the heart of a night destined to panting on necks and legs opened like an insomniac’s eyes. The rough consistence of letting go without reins – the daughter of the _who gives a fuck_ philosophy – was so invigorating that it hurt. Every time that Malik came back to his underground kingdom made of casual encounters and fast indulgences, he found out all over again that he liked it even more than the last time: there wasn’t a long-term relationship that could hold a candle to it, and he didn’t feel any shame in admitting it.  
Malik sped up the pace. He was aroused, greedy, excited; he was going to convince the guy that it was worth it to bring him home. Malik was going to make him explode in his mouth and he was going to make his partner like it so much that he would have to pound Malik all night long to even things. Both of them had stopped counting the minutes and with his nails digging inside his partner’s taut thigh, Malik was already tasting the potential future of their meeting. A few other movements, along with a few elegant torsions of the tongue, and the man’s liquid, white gratification piled up in the condom’s container. The man came with a slight spasm and broken wails that almost made him sound soft. Malik opened his mouth and moved it away from the man’s dick, not so rigid anymore, raised his face up and saw the brunet with his nose pointed at the sky, enjoying the last moments of his orgasm, his balls well-emptied and his abs flexing: the air left and happiness took its place.  
Malik also knew the theoretical basis according to which satisfying your partner is a way to satisfy yourself, too, according to a non-written universal law that had moved across time and space for thousands of years. But for him, it was an abstract notion, a law he hadn’t acquired and far from his personal experience. What Malik did, he did in order to reach a target that had nothing to do with _the other_. He wanted to have fun, and he wanted it in a way that could be, sometimes, both uncivilized and arrogant; satisfying a partner, to Malik, had the only target to motivate the other to do the same for him, and so he saw it as nothing more than one obligatory step on which he shouldn’t spend more time than necessary. Not that he had never appreciated, sincerely, some of the people he had been with – either men or women – but he never actually got to the point of desiring to put someone else outside him, and before him.

– Hi. –   
Malik was forced to wake up from the memories running over the hair on his arms, as vivid as he had lived them a few hours before. The Syrian came back to Earth, blinking his eyes to focus on his surroundings: he had peeled, cleaned and cut more than ten giant onions and he had put them in the oven along with the potatoes, dusted with thyme and cinnamon. He had closed the front door and he had just stayed in front of it, thinking back on hands on thighs, fellatios and various corporal secretions.  
Malik turned his face towards the call that had hooked him, and he saw Altair appear in front of his eyes, like a nightmare: he was standing next to the other end of the counter, filling a tray with Rebecca’s curry lentils. To be more precise, Altair was pouring those large scoops of boiling legumes without even looking at them, because his amber eyes were pointed at Malik, like a predatory bird. Altair’s stare could be so insistent that it would give Malik nervous impetigo. However, the sudden memory of Altair’s existence made Malik go back over the previous day, just to be sure of how to answer that greeting: if with anger, smugness, indifference, or none of those three.  
Malik pressed _rewind_ on the remote control of his memories: Altair fucking men, Holly finally getting out of his way, Kadar fantasizing on Altair and Malik’s ears bleeding as he listened to him, walking inside the red lights kingdom, his mouth getting filled inside the bathroom stall, and not with food, a bed that’s not his own, his back bending, his legs opening and his insides being possessed by the hard stick of lust.  
No.   
Malik didn’t find a specific reason to use a different tone from usual when greeting Altair. He remembered that he had to seem as if he didn’t care, as if he wasn’t impressed, as if he was far away. He remembered their challenge, the flirting, the erotic doubt, the thin line of ambiguity.  
– Hello. –   
Malik said, as inexpressive as he had promised himself. Altair was just a shadow in the room, an apathic and obtuse ghost that sometimes talked to him. There was no reason to be harsh at him without reason, especially now that his nerves – tied to Holly – had disappeared thanks to that night’s great screwing.  
– Everything all right? –   
Altair asked, slowing down the speed of his maneuvers from pot to tray, to avoid exposing himself to potential damage – for example, Rebecca getting angry at him. On his face, Altair kept a docile expression, like a mannequin’s. His voice was expressing interest, but Malik couldn’t understand why; or maybe, he could, but he was pretending not to. Rebecca glanced at Malik before, then at Altair, then at the way the lentils were being transported inside the tablespoon. She was holding Altair’s arm in her sight, ready to scold him at the first drop of sauce that might fall on the iron of the counter.  
Malik breathed in – he was absolutely present now, and at peace with the world: he could relax, there was nothing to get upset about. Altair wasn’t a menace; he was a simple idiosyncrasy. He had to stand through a lot worse. That night Malik could drink, dance and fuck the way satyrs did: he had little to complain. So he let his lips relax and loosened his eyebrows’ contraction, trying to look the least wild he could manage. He curved a corner of his mouth upwards and gave a small sneer to his co-worker – who was only waiting for him, in whichever form or way. Then he turned on his side to bend towards the shelves at his back, from which he grabbed a large basket of potatoes.  
In that moment, Altair’s arm froze: his eyes had landed straight on a detail on Malik that wasn’t really such a detail after all. On his neck, on the left side, towards his collarbone, he could see a noticeable hickey, of an intense shade. Altair couldn’t stop staring at it, remembering perfectly that there was nothing similar in that same spot the previous day, because he couldn’t have missed such a thing. When he could finally absorb that visual image, Altair’s arm moved again with the same precision as before, even if right now he was worrying even less about looking at the lentils. In his head’s Cineplex, Altair was already going through a movie in which he imagined leaving himself such a mark on Malik. He thought that it might mean that things were going better with Holly, or that, more simply, Malik had finally decided to take a mistress on the side.  
Anyway, none of those options was satisfying to him.  
When Malik put the basket of potatoes back on the iron shelf and looked back at Altair, his sneer was still there, and both of them were staring at each other, throwing the ball at each other without either of them keeping it. Malik was wearing an expression that would have looked well on a busty woman wearing an elegant dress. In his stare, there was a mute provocation, _come on, ask me_. But Altair would have never asked him, if only because he was still waiting for Malik’s answer to his _everything all right?_  
An answer that, after a wearing wait, the cook didn’t deny. Malik shrugged, strong in his solid self-esteem, and he spoke, angling his tone towards a _where_ far and untouchable, that Altair could have never reached.  
– Never been better. –


	7. Chapter 7

_November 12th, 2016.  
New York City._

November always sucked.  
It always rained. And it was cold. But it was also the month of Malik’s birthday.  
– Who’s without a ride tonight? –  
Rebecca asked in a shrill voice, trying to be heard over the whistle of the two pressure cookers that were screaming like geese chased by children.  
– Me. But Altair’s driving me back. –  
Desmond replied, putting gloves on so he could take the meat out of the oven. Rebecca gave him a thumbs-up, like a personal trainer congratulating themselves with their pupil.  
– But I haven’t understood where’s the place exactly. –  
Desmond added, putting on the counter a casserole smoking with proteins cooked in green spices.  
– It’s right around the corner. But we’re going all together after closing time anyway. –  
Malik was passively listening to the conversation, focused on cutting zucchini but, even more so, thinking on the fact that even that year, same as most of the others before, he still hadn’t come up with anything to do for his birthday. He missed force of will and imagination.  
– Do you need a ride, Malik? –  
Rebecca told him directly, forcing him to raise his eyes and meet her stare.  
– I have the car today. –  
Malik answered quickly, and then went back to the zucchini, but before he could go back to cutting he felt his cellphone’s vibration pinch his ass cheek; he grabbed it from his black jeans’ back pocket and saw it was Kadar, who was still being a nuisance on Whatsapp. Again.  
_Are you ever replying to meeeeeee??? (èAé)9_  
A fantastic preview of a message, the kind that makes you want to press on the notification. Malik sighed, knowing his brother wouldn’t have left him alone until he obtained a yes or a no concerning what he asked in another message the previous evening. Or better, at 3 AM. Malik put the phone back in place and took his time: he still had twenty zucchinis, four pepper, ten carrots and three celeries to chop. Kadar would have to wait. Then Altair’s back opened the kitchen’s door and he slipped inside, holding in his arms the large casserole of salad where only the oil’s grease remained. He put it near the sinks, which were always full of warm water and soap. Desmond turned to look at him and when his cousin met his stare, Altair smiled at him – or better, a strange shape came on his face, a shape that he swore was a smile. Malik glanced at Altair in the interval in between zucchinis; the cook was satisfied that he had found some kind of equilibrium when it came to his co-worker. Altair walked slowly, as in, his usual pace, and reached Desmond, who was seasoning the beef with some salt. He put his palm on the younger man’s shoulder, and with the other he reached down for a small piece of meat and slipped it inside his mouth.  
– How’s that? –  
Desmond asked, with scientific interested.  
– Hm, hm. –  
Altair nodded as he chewed, giving his approval.  
– We need someone at the check-out. –  
Altair said, without any hurry. Malik and Rebecca looked at each other, then at Desmond.  
– I’m going. –  
Desmond said, having understood the order. He finished with the beef and took off his apron, while Altair remained like a beanpole in front of the tray watching the smoking and fragrant meat. He was helping as much as a lifeguard in an empty pool. Desmond closed a fist and punched Altair’s strong arm, like in between teens, and then disappeared out of the door. Silence fell. Rebecca was working on the soup, Malik kept on cutting vegetables, and Altair was reaching for the beef again to slip another piece inside his mouth.  
– Altair. –  
Rebecca called him, her voice sprinkled with pepper. But Altair didn’t catch the warning; actually, he brought the meat to his mouth with all the calm in the world, started chewing and turned towards her, unconcerned, and just then he muttered something in reply – other than the beef.  
– Hm? –  
Malik let steam off with a sigh and shook his head, reminding himself why he hated Altair. He was stupid, he was distracted; superficial. He was…  
– The salad’s finished, right? –  
Rebecca went on, meaning what Altair had left in the sink with the soap. Altair took the necessary time to hit the meat with his jaw another three times and replied without catching – or without wanting to catch – the rhetoric of the question.  
– Yes. –  
The uselessness of his answer was disarming. Rebecca was stirring the soup with her spoon, but her eyes were completely focused on Altair, who was still standing without doing nothing. It was as if all the implicit attempts to suggest him the next step in his mansions had failed. But Rebecca, differently from Malik, had a lot more patience, and she saw something tender, if a bit childish, in that subdued and lazy behavior of Altair’s.  
Rebecca was thinking about how to teach Altair, Malik about how to insult him.  
– So, why don’t you drain and dry the salad in the recipient and season it for me? –  
Rebecca sounded like she was making a proposal, but obviously it was not one. Altair stopped chewing and swallowed. He took a look around to look for the tool he needed and found it: it was on the opposite side of the kitchen, near the place where Malik was cutting the last zucchini.  
– Sure. –  
Altair said, coming closer to the counter. He grabbed the centrifuge and put himself in front of the recipient, full of water with salad soaking in it. He turned to the right to meet Malik’s eyes but he only obtained his profile. Malik felt eyes on him and tried to not cut his own finger out of irritation; then he thought that the best defense was probably attack, and so he stopped his work and raised his stare. Altair liked it, and gave him another of those cold but pure smiles, and then he started grabbing the salad in large handfuls; he drained it and shook it out, and then he put it inside the centrifuge to dry it. Malik’s eyes went downwards, fixing on Altair’s hands, staring at the slow, almost insufferable precision with which he was carrying out the task. Malik allowed himself a break, letting his stare float over that dance that joined the light green of iceberg and lettuce to the olive tone of his colleague’s skin. In between the colors and the droplets of water, Malik found in that picture a detail that made him think back on the happening of a few weeks ago: in between the folds of the phalanxes of his left hand, he saw emerge in its pallor the scar on Altair’s finger.  
– How is your finger? –  
Malik asked, in a tamer phase, without going back to cutting, wanting to let Altair have all of the attention for the moment. Altair appreciated the interest, but nothing on his face was letting it show.  
– Good, thanks. –  
Altair replied slowly, articulating every syllable: he wanted to thank Malik for his thought – attentive, unexpected, absolutely fantastic. Altair stood there looking at him, with a smile that this time looked like a proper one; he did appreciate those small events, sporadic and accidental, that brought him and Malik closer; that made them humans, other than colleagues.  
– Hey, beautiful dark stranger? –  
Rebecca called Altair like that, to catch his attention. Altair turned instinctively, not even knowing if she was calling him, for that matter.  
– You’re coming with us tonight, yes? –  
She asked, rhetorically as well. Altair nodded, and he did it with energy for the first time.  
– Sure. –  
He answered, with a period at the end of it. Rebecca smiled, another rare event.  
– Great. –  
The girl let the soup to rest and headed for the sink with soap in it to clean the greased salad casserole, her back turned to their colleagues. Malik went back to cutting, trying to count in minutes how much time it’d take to finish all his vegetables.  
– You’re coming as well, right? –  
Altair asked Malik, his eyes looking like a bird of prey’s again. Malik stayed with his head bent down, and let a small excess of bile escape his lips.  
– Why, is it even important? –  
Malik couldn’t explain why that thrust, a bit undeserved, left his mouth. It was the same sting that went back to hit without logical motivations, like in the fairytale of the frog and the scorpion. Except that in that case, Malik wouldn’t have risked dying. And, remembering that Altair was more or less immune to poison, he figured that the colleague would have survived as well, and fine enough. But Altair did way more than that.  
– It’s the only thing that’s important, to me. –  
Altair answered, with the tone of obviousness, while he was taking out the last handful of salad and shaking it out. Malik remained for a moment with the knife stuck in mid-air: he was bothered by how Altair always managed, somehow, to contrast his toxicity like peroxide on bacteria. Altair closed the centrifuge, opened the bottom of the tray so that the water could drain away, put the full centrifuge under his arm and moved away from there. As if it was nothing. He went next to Rebecca, listening to her instructions; she told him to centrifuge again the green leaves and put them in the now-clean tray, she’d worry about seasoning. Malik’s knife went back on the zucchini, but didn’t cut again. A thought brushed against his brain and he decided differently. He took the cellphone from his pocket and ran for the back entrance.  
– I’m taking ten. –  
Said Malik without looking at anyone, opening the door wide and letting the sun hit him; once in a while, it shone also in November.  
What was that even? Flirting? An advance that came out terribly? A terrifying misstep? Words said in total freedom? Why was it so hard for him to understand whether Altair was just being an idiot or if he was also using deceptions and tricks to act in the shadows? One thing was certain, though: he was getting bolder. Malik moved forwards and backwards in the narrow alley a couple of times, hearing doubt’s hammer hitting his head again and again. His math concerning Altair gave a single result, but he wasn’t too sure he liked that. The cook swallowed fresh air and opened Whatsapp, reading again Kadar’s messages quickly, and pressed on his contact name to call him. He raised his chin towards the sky and met the blinding light of the sun, that he kept on looking at, happy that it was hurting him.  
– Oh, you took your sweet time! –  
Kadar replied on the other side, his very personal version of _hello?_ , Malik smiled, not able to take his little brother’s resentment seriously.  
– Some of us are working here. –  
Malik replied, the corners of his mouth staying turned upwards.  
– Can it, you left me with a _seen_ message since three AM. –  
The nonsense in Kadar’s words went hand in hand with his sweet immaturity.  
– There’s people sleeping at three AM. –  
Malik answered with the same scheme. Kadar made a noise like a hunted animal and muttered some protest, seasoned with huffs. The older one waited patiently for him to be done, and started pacing through the alley again while he was waiting.  
– So? –  
Kadar said again, returning to a human form. Malik stopped.  
– So, I don’t know. –  
– What is that doesn’t convince you? –  
Kadar asked, ready to listen. Malik picked carefully what words to use.  
– Eh, a bit of everything, really. –  
– Hey, we can go somewhere else if you don’t feel like going to the Pink Unicorn. –  
Kadar proposed, with the thoughtfulness of an event organizer.  
– That’s not the problem. –  
Malik put a hand on his hip and started walking again.  
– You mean, you don’t want to spend the night like _that_? –  
Kadar said, anticipating Malik’s thoughts and replying for him.  
– Exactly. –  
Said Malik at once, thankful for the understanding.  
– Hm. –  
The younger man muttered, pausing so he could think. His nice plan had been refused, but Malik was the birthday guy and he was going to respect his choices.  
– Okay. –  
Kadar said, after taking a bit of time.  
– I thought you might enjoy the idea of someone riding you while they whisper _happy birthday_ in your ear. –  
From Kadar’s tone it was obvious that he was talking with a dumb smile plastered on his face, and Malik laughed, imagining it. Right, the idea wasn’t too bad, really. But he’d have rather spent his birthday with people he knew, those few old friends that made his existence more bearable.  
– I know you got horny just thinking about it. –  
Kadar added, with his natural inclination to be insufferable.  
– Please, shut up. –  
Malik answered, with an equal tone, half-lying: he had imagined the scene in his head, after all.  
– Are you confirming tomorrow, at our parents’? –  
Malik kept on to close those erotically-charged brackets, too titillating for eleven in the morning.  
– Sure. Mom said she’s worrying about everything, including dessert. –  
Malik looked at the people walking along the sidewalk at the end of the alley, thinking about how many, same as him, had reached a quarter of a century.  
– Okay, so, I’ll see you around midday at home and then we can hang around for the afternoon? Maybe we can watch a movie, would you like that? –  
Kadar pressed him, failing in masking that plan’s real target: pushing Malik to social interaction instead of reclusion.  
– What could we see? –  
Asked Malik without excluding the chance on principle.  
– There’s a new horror movie out! The trailer was cool, but like hell I’m going alone. –  
Kadar grimaced on the other side of the phone.  
– Fine, we can watch that, then. –  
Malik confirmed without even thinking about it: the real show would have been seeing Kadar jerk over the seat with every jump scare.  
– Great! –  
Kadar rejoiced, enthusiastically.  
– And if after then we go bowling or drinking something with the boys? –  
The younger one threw that out as a last attempt, and Malik nodded without saying no.  
– Could be. Some people had written me already to ask if we could see each other tomorrow, we could end the day like that. –  
Malik’s friends weren’t a lot, but the few he had, he held on to.  
– Oh, we made it, finally! –  
Kadar said, breathing in relief. It was done and over, victory, one-zero to him, birthday saved this year as well.  
– I’m creating a Whatsapp group then. –  
Added Kadar, all quivering, while Malik was already thinking that he might have made a great mistake, accepting everything too soon. In a few seconds his free day had turned into a day that was very much – if _too much_ – busy.  
– There’s no hurry. –  
Malik said, not letting anxiety catch him.  
– Do shut up. –  
Kadar rebutted with an invisible smile.  
– So, you’re really sure that you don’t want to… –  
The younger man let the sentence hang, making sure Malik found it easy to fill it.  
– Sure. –  
Malik leaned with his back on the wall’s bricks, one sole of a shoe as well.  
– Okay. –  
Kadar didn’t insist further. A small miracle of wisdom.  
– Listen, I have to go. –  
Malik’s eyes narrowed on a plane gliding in the sky, most likely towards JFK. Kadar gave details on a few other things, laughed about something else and then they said goodbye. When he closed the call, Malik felt the anxiety of the commitment he had already taken, and partially, the agitation brought by all those news: at least from the premises, he had a more promising birthday than the previous years. But Malik’s reactions on the topic were contrasting, because he had a spirit that, sometimes, found it hard to take shape. He was good at adapting, if forced to, and he could be the life of the party if he felt like it: the man everyone remembers when they go back home and fall asleep, the one that’s funny but smart, too, the one that girls like but doesn’t brag. Others, on the opposite, all he wished for was staying on his own on his sofa along with a book, or reading online articles on the hot topics of the day, with good tea next to him and light music in the background, better if ambient or post-rock. He hated and loved company, and he didn’t see a contradiction in that: even if he had understood, at the eve of his twenty-five years, that the problem was about _who_. Even Malik’s nape ended on the ugly and dirty bricks of the wall while his eyes moved up to look at the pastel sky. It was cold, but it was nice. He had a few minutes left before he had to go back in, and he took advantage of it to let his thoughts flow by, like a stream of consciousness; as he did, inevitably he went back to a few minutes ago, to that sentence, to that hint, to those eyes that stared at him. In a word: he went back with his mind to Altair, who seemed to be well-trained in staying on the extreme border in between hints and harassment. He was sending Malik suggestions, but not clear enough that he could answer surely. The doubt remained, and the bother, too. On the contrary, Malik needed to be sure, to have a confirmation beyond doubts: he wanted to be sure that Altair’s game was what he thought. They needed to confront each other on even ground, because Malik didn’t enjoy people leading him on, not as much as he liked leading others on. It was a question of advantage, of control. Maybe it was time to play it straight for Malik, too; the time for playing things backward was over. The cook moved a hand on his face to do away with his tiredness and went back inside. He didn’t find Altair, who was most likely done with the salad and had gone back to the counter, and maybe this time he was working and not bothering him with ambiguous comments. Rebecca was ahead with the vegetables that Malik had cut before. He thanked her, while the smoke of doubt clearing from his mind the same way fans suck away the kitchen vapors.  
There was something that Malik could do to get rid of his doubt, in fact.

– Desmond. –  
Malik said, his tone fluctuating while he cleaned grease stains from the steel counter with a damp cloth. The room on the other side was starting to become silent, the kitchen’s ovens were getting cold, the customers disappeared in between a cough and a laugh, the employees’ yawns increasing, and the cold as well. Desmond, bent on a lower ledge so he could stack crates of already peeled potatoes soaking, raised his face towards him, as much as he could.  
– Hm? Tell me. –  
Malik slowed down as he drew humid circles and got ready to walk into that conversation. Rebecca was doing accounting with Lucy and Michael, Altair and Shaun were sharing counter and check-out as closing time was imminent. The moment was perfect, and Malik had done the math: he had enough time to start and finish that conversation with Desmond without risking an unexpected interruption.  
– Can I ask you something about your cousin? –  
Malik asked candidly, without looking at Desmond or stopping what he was doing, so that he’d suggest an ideal of calm indifference: he shouldn’t make him worried.  
– Sure. –  
Desmond said, moving down even further to make sure all the crates would fit.  
– Is he gay, by chance? –  
Malik asked with the same tone as you’d ask what time is it. Nonetheless, the cook’s thoughtfulness wasn’t enough. Malik felt a strong metallic noise from the lower shelf, the one where Desmond had slid his head inside to fit the potatoes in. Then, Malik stopped his arm, waiting. Then he saw Desmond come out; he was massaging his own head. Malik couldn’t believe it had happened for real.  
– Desmond. –  
Malik asked dryly, oscillating between statement and question.  
– Sorry, sorry, I’m good. –  
Said Desmond, painfully. Had the question floored him that bad? Malik couldn’t believe it. Desmond stood up, put his hands on his hips and stared at Malik, his eyebrows tense.  
– Altair is what…? –  
Desmond asked, for confirmation. Malik replied with a patient sigh.  
– Is your cousin gay, by chance? –  
Malik repeated, neutrally, smelling in the air an unjustified embarrassment. Desmond opened his mouth and balanced his weight on both feet, huffing nervously because of the mess he was finding himself in: he was obviously taking time, but he didn’t know hurry was the least of Malik’s problems right now.  
– Well, I don’t know how to put it… –  
Malik stared at him in silence, waiting for an elaborated reply, and the fact that meanwhile he wasn’t doing anything else was making Desmond even more agitated; after all, he didn’t know how to handle giving out information on his cousin’s sexual life. Would it have been inappropriate to give a sincere reply? Would it have created involuntary embarrassment? Altair wasn’t the kind of guy who made huge issues out of it, but… why was Malik asking him that? After a quick analysis of the options he had at his disposal, eventually Desmond decided to reply sincerely. That said, he preferred to look for something to do to distract himself in the meantime. He found a bunch of cleaned cutlery to put back in its place ahead, on the left of the counter.  
– He’s been with a girl for a long time, before. Then he started to… you know, look, both left and right… you get it? –  
Malik held himself back from rolling his eyes towards the sky for that misconceived metaphor, as if one needed to translate into euphemism a guy who liked dick and clit both. But the problem wasn’t the lexicon choices, so Malik cut things short and decided to meet Desmond in the middle and get the words he needed out of his mouth.  
– So, men and women both? –  
Malik asked, simple as a shopping list, and went back to move the cloth on the steel.  
– Hm. –  
Desmond nodded, the weight of syntax finally lifted. If helped, he could get to the point as well.  
– So, he’s bi. Right? –  
Malik asked again, lowering his back to get away with a stain of sauce that was being particularly stubborn. There was little left, just a last scruple.  
– Eh, yes, right. –  
Desmond seemed to relax at that point, as if he had a word on the tip of his tongue for that long that he finally could remember. Malik gave him a lopsided smile, but in truth he was hiding that he was really amused. He looked at Desmond and he also relaxed, satisfied that he obtained what he wanted.  
– Okay. –  
Malik said without a shadow of turmoil. He couldn’t be repulsed of something that was similar to what he was, after all. But what concerned him, wouldn’t have ever concerned his colleagues. The curiosity of investigating the others and finding out their shadows and secrets was teasing to him, but he fought with stubbornness the inverse process. Desmond smiled, not bottled up in embarrassment anymore, and he kept on putting away in their place the dry cutlery, with enthusiasm. A few seconds that seemed like years passed by.  
– Why? –  
Desmond said, going back into the field, probably out of mere curiosity. Malik had been expecting it, he had foreseen it, and he actually had the perfect excuse to give him.  
– A third party asked me. –  
Malik didn’t even need to lie because Kadar had actually asked for that specific piece of information – as much as the bare idea disturbed him. What was really important for Malik was that Desmond got sculpted in his mind that the interest didn’t come from _him_ at all: just because he asked if Altair was gay, it didn’t mean that _he_ was interested.  
– Oh! –  
Desmond exclaimed, with great surprise. He was smiling, all excited at the prospect that his cousin might have a secret admirer.  
– I don’t know who it might be, but you can tell him that Altair’s single now. –  
Desmond kept on his usual rainbow-shaped smile, round and luminous. Malik nodded and shrugged, thinking that at the end of it Desmond could think what he wanted; Malik wasn’t obligated to be sincere in that conversation, just believable.  
– I’ll make sure to tell them. –  
Malik said through thin lips, with the intention of closing there that _absolutely pleasurable_ chat. He had obtained what he wanted and he had made sure he wouldn’t get misunderstood, or at least so it seemed to him. Malik had no issues when coming outs were involved, and he never had been more distant from feeling shame on the topic, but he was attached to his privacy without measure, like underwear under your trousers. So, unless there was a real need, or that he was asked a straight question, or that the topic didn’t come up naturally, Malik wasn’t going to inform his colleagues that he, seemingly similar to Altair, liked both women and men. But now Malik’s thoughts were focused on something else: if Altair was bi for real, then he couldn’t rule out that in the last times he had been on the receiving end of potential advances. _Okay_ , he thought, _let’s say that it’s the case_. But the real problem was: where did Altair want to end up? Was he sincere, or was he flirting for the sake of it? Was he trying to understand as well if he was interested and available? Was he studying him, fascinated, or did he just want to have fun?  
There was a lot more to reason about, and the game had a certain potential for frivolous fun, the kind that has no consequences: Malik’s favorite. Nonetheless, it was always Altair. Malik had to make sure he understood that he could flirt and spar as much as he wanted, but there wasn’t a single chance that he could be interesting to him so much that he could have an actual chance with him. He wasn’t his type and they weren’t compatible. For Malik, he would have stayed a mere exercise in style. Usually, he was adjusted to distinguish between track and finish line.  
You can have fun while running, but you can always lose coming in last.

Lucy stepped on her tiptoes to grab at the handle of the shutter. Michael, next to her, had tries to insist to do it himself, but it was obvious that the blonde’s level of testosterone beat many men’s. Lucy’s thin legs, wrapped in the black nylon of her fifty-den stockings, tapered like stems in a field. The clattering of the little-lubed shutter made Rebecca wince, standing in the middle of the small circle around the closing shop, which was made of all the employees: Malik, Altair, Desmond, Shaun and, finally, Rebecca. Shaun had in between his lips an almost finished cigarette, his helmet under his arm, and the _Half Moon Kebab_ sign’s light was reflecting on his glasses’ lenses.  
– We’re going by foot, yeah? –  
Asked Shaun, who hadn’t still understood a thing about where the place they were going actually was. Rebecca crossed her arms on her chest, cold, flattening even more her already small breasts. Then she replied to her co-worker.  
– Sure, it’s five minutes from here. –  
Rebecca sniffled and moved a lock from her fringe that peeked out of her wool hat.  
– Wait, I’m warning them so they’ll keep a table for us. –  
Rebecca took her cellphone; it had a monstrous and very furry cat-shaped keychain attached to it. She looked at the boys quickly, counting them.  
– No one else is coming? –  
She said, rhetorically. Then, looking at Malik again, asked with less rhetoric:  
– Is Holly coming, too? –  
There was a carefree purity in her tone that revealed her good intentions, and Malik appreciated it, trying to pay her back with the same serenity in his soul. Surely, it would have caused some embarrassment, but he wouldn’t allow it to last for more than thirty seconds.  
– We broke up. –  
Malik said in a distracted tone, lowering his eyes to his cellphone immediately after; after all, it wasn’t a statement that deserved interrupting more important activities, like finishing that Sudoku that he had been working on for almost three days.  
– Bloody hell. –  
Shaun exclaimed without even moving the cigarette from his mouth, starting the infamous thirty seconds in which everyone would have participated in the usual niceties of fake displeasure. Rebecca’s eyes widened, aware that she had made a terrible faux-pas. Desmond went still, thinking of something to say, but only a _Oh_ left his lips. The one that seemed less bothered by the news was actually Altair, who merely turned his face towards Malik and sent him a stare cut by his hood, that was pulled up. There was a certain balance of appearances to respect in that group, in the midst of the others. But that didn’t mean that Altair, inside himself, hadn’t actually exploded, died and then come back to life with the same speed as premature ejaculation. Malik was _single_. That bitch, well, Holly, after all, had been finally dumped. The smile that Altair wanted to give in to, very much, sincere like a preschool child, had to stay sealed in his bones, and only could enjoy the news on a purely mental level.  
– God, sorry, I had no idea. I’m sorry. –  
Said Rebecca, obviously caught between a rock and a hard place, trying to make light of the embarrassment that had fallen upon the group. Malik thought that the thirty seconds he has put into account for excuses and various awkward moments were close to finished, so he closed the Sudoku game, raised his eyes from the screen and chose to cut that intermission short with an axe.  
– I’m not. It was a good thing. No problem. –  
As dry as the Atacama desert, Malik imposed like that his own ending, and a silence fell upon the group that was as searing hot as ice on someone’s hand. Desmond put his hands in his pockets; Rebecca smiled, but not because she wanted to; Shaun, on the opposite, was almost tempted to ask for clarifications, but not feeling supported he opted to say nothing. Altair, instead, hid the flame of euphoria with his usual aplomb. Lucy and Michael finally got there, sliding inside the group like two curious pigeons.  
– Did you book? –  
Asked Lucy, to Altair first and then Rebecca. She wasn’t sure of who was going to deal with it. Rebecca, still grasping her phone, remembered what she was supposed to do.  
– Right, right. –  
She dialed the number and put the phone to her ear.  
No one touched the _Holly_ topic anymore, and every uncomfortable look disappeared under the veil of dignity. That helped not just to make the atmosphere less tense, but also to empty their heads to fill them back up with other thoughts, or with nothing at all: the next day was Sunday, their weekly rest day, and that evening they all would have rather drowned work into a glass of French or Italian wine, a 12-degrees strong beer or an extra-caloric cocktail, drowning in inane chatter and harmless stereotypes, laughing about dumb things, and most of all not taking each other too seriously. The place was indeed nearby, it didn’t take them more than eight minutes to get there. Even if completely made of wood, the place seemed to have been built with a _fusion_ idea in mind: there was a bit of the warmth from a British pub and a bit of the cold, minimal style typical of the Big Apple. The lights were dimmed, even too much, which didn’t seem to make a lot of clients willing to go for eating food: with that lightening, you could barely see what was on your plate. But it wasn’t a problem, because the most urgent need was drinking, and the classical happy hour appetizers with some dried fruit would have been enough, making everyone agree.  
Lucy and Michael led the group and the seven of them were invited to sit in a corner of the room, saved just for them. The table was a rectangle in polished wood: there were a couple of chairs on one long side and two others at the heads of the table, and the other long side of the table had a comfortable little sofa in which three people could sit, tight. The furniture had a certain retro touch, the pieces made of useless trinkets and strange bric-a-brac. The guys took off their clothes and started warming up. Lucy asked Michael twice in the span of five minutes if he was fine to stay or if he felt too tired. Michael smiled, occupying one of the places at the head of the table, his back comfortably resting against the chair, which made less evident the curve of his belly, round and full of good intentions. Lucy was indeed sitting on the chair at his left, and her rosy skin was particularly favored by the lightening in the room. Next to her, on the second chair, was Altair; he still had his hood up, which gave him that certain mysterious and ranger-like that irritated one of the other guys so much: Malik, as per tradition. The cook was finding that attitude rude and childish to boot. It was as if Altair had to be different from everyone else at all costs, like he had to raise his hand and scream, _hey, I’m the special snowflake in here_. Absolutely insufferable, like everything else about him. And, sadly for Malik, he was exactly in front of him. Not even the fact that the little sofa was so comfortable could console him. If anything, in between him and Altair, going clockwise on the other head of the table, was Shaun, intent on cleaning his glasses and fixing his hair. Near Malik, at his left, was Rebecca: her elbows were on the wooden table and her lynx eyes were scratching the other customers in the place. Finishing the whole group, on the last spot on the sofa next to Rebecca, was Desmond, the youngest in the entire group.  
Little by little, everyone started to savor the sweet taste of letting go, the way it usually happens in the evening and comes from knowing that the next morning you won’t be disturbed by the alarm. In between them, just one of them didn’t seem to wallow in that mood and to not participate actively in the evening: Altair. He was curved over his chair, leaning forward without balance, his hood still over his head and a shadow covering his eyes, a perfect imitation of Aragorn waiting for the hobbits at the Prancing Pony. The hands in his pocket negating any potential contact, his closed mouth isolating him from any interaction, eyes moving from a face to the other but never meeting anyone else’s, making a desert around him. That was what everyone would have read in his stance, set on the automatic pilot of behavioral issues. But what Altair was feeling inside him was far as galaxies from those appearances. He couldn’t forget those words of Malik’s that had granted him an advantage as sweet as honey, as far as his plans were concerned. Knowing that he was single changed the cards on the table completely, to the point where he was forced to rework his strategies and the times in which to put them into practice. With Holly out of the picture, he could discard the issue concerning the distance that he had to follow because of social expectations: he could flirt harder until it became obviously explicit, and then he could work himself officially – elbowing his way in – inside the list of interested people. What hadn’t changed was the unknown variable with which Malik had left him concerning his tastes and preferences. Was there some glimmer of mental openness, and sexual, or was Malik devotedly and absolutely straight? Would he have managed to tickle his curiosity, or a healthy and inquiring want to try something new? When Altair had tried to work on that minefield, Shaun had walked right inside it and let a couple of mines blow up, fucking everything up. So, he still didn’t have an answer. But Altair wasn’t feeling discouraged: he could have more chances, dozens and dozens throughout the week. With an unaware slip, Altair’s lips curled for a moment upwards: an embryo of a satisfied smile. He could get there and he could make it, never mind how it might end and the answer that Malik would have given him. He was going to try anything, until the end, until he had either won or lost; the lust that consumed him was too primitive and unsinkable, and the charm of that Syrian with carbon-colored eyes and sharp tongue was too honed for him to not give into the temptation of letting himself be hurt.  
_What would be the first thing I’d do to him?_ Altair thought while he hung his stare on the object of his desires, going back to imagining, as he did more and more often lately, what he would have felt wrapping him in his arms, keep him in between his thighs, having him horizontally under him or vertically, sitting on his lap. And in that altered mess of spicy fantasies and unexpressed desires, Malik’s eyes met Altair’s. The young man with the hood clenched his fists inside the hoodie’s pockets, because he was feeling embarrassed: those two dark abysses had hit him without warning, like a stray bullet, in a vulnerable moment such as one in which he was fantasizing with open eyes about having sex with him. But, as usual, the blow was taken and swallowed; nothing transpired from the cold sweat that Altair could feel wetting his fingers. Actually, he took advantage and asked himself a question: if a direct and distilled look from Malik could make his cardiac muscle jump like that and make his mouth clumsy with emotion, how would he have ended up if he had placed his lips on those rude lips?  
The hem of Altair’s hood started to slip away, letting free his short hair that sprung out in many small locks. As he was taken by surprised, Altair’s shoulders and neck went rigid and he immediately turn to spot the culprit. Lucy was talking to Rebecca and Desmond, while her arm reached out and finished pushing down the hood, uncovering him completely. All of his lovely face was now hit by the fine, dusty light of the pub. He was staring at Lucy in a straight line, sending her a serious look but without daring to scold her; he was harmless. Lucy, on the other side, didn’t pay attention to him at all: once her gesture had been completed, she let the rough cloth of the hood land on Altair’s back, letting her palm rub her friend’s back for a moment as it slid away, as if to tell him to not get upset. Then Lucy moved her arm back and put it under her breast, still talking to the others, without ever having given them the impression of interrupting herself. Lucy had known Altair since they were kids, and the hood thing was a habit that hadn’t stuck just to the hard pages of his teenage years. When she could, she tried to bring him back to civilization and good manners through a look, a well-placed elbow in his side, a verbal callout or, like in that case, through a limpid and unexpected motion, as heavy as a snowflake. She wanted Altair there and participating, out of that bell jar that isolated him, that the hood was a perfect metaphor for. Shortly: she wanted him with her. And the others. Altair, who was usually more willing to give Lucy more than he gave most people, went along with her wish and let his head be uncovered, accepting the facts.  
Altair remembered where he had last been looking at before he was interrupted, and so he looked back soon at who was in front of him, Malik. The cook, though, had already started talking to the others again, Shaun particularly. Altair had missed that train. The young man sighed without anyone noticing, straightened his back and let it lean against the seat, opening his legs under the table until his knees started bothering the two opposite extremes, Lucy on the right and Shaun on the left. But it was a natural process for Altair, who stayed in that position worthy of and uncivilized Texan cow-herder to show that he had most likely missed the lesson when in school they taught about personal space and its boundaries. Shaun and Lucy didn’t mind that intrusiveness under the table, or at least didn’t care to reprimand him for it in public; something that Malik would have done more than willingly, as he couldn’t avoid noticing how rudely Altair was imposing his physical massiveness on the rest of group. It was incredible how Malik always ended up adding something in the list of attitudes of Altair’s that he hated. He couldn’t find anything stimulating in him if not his well-sculpted body, trained, worthy of a calendar; maybe his very peculiar face, which was intriguing after all, whose rigid traits married his hostile and rock-hard charm. Malik had decided, at that point, that beyond the aesthetical and superficial layer, there was no point in digging. What he had in front of his eyes was enough and he kept on stopping there, turning off the engine and pulling up the handbrake.  
Then the different conversation that were intersecting like broken lines from each side of the table to the other were interrupted by the waiter, who asked for their orders. The large part of them was caught unprepared, since they hadn’t even decided if they wanted hop or grape. Rebecca asked what reds they had, Desmond and Michael were leaning more towards hand-crafted beers, and the others were trying to catch up running their eyes over the drinks menu and the cocktails list, or they were expecting to hear what the others were having to add with an unbiased _the same_. Malik paid attention to the list of reds the waiter was reciting Rebecca. He wouldn’t have minded a glass of wine: a French Pinot noir, a Zinfandel from the Coppola wine cellar, a 2013 Chappellet, another whose name he hadn’t caught from the Sonoma Coast… the quality was there, maybe even too much for him, who only wanted a nice drink with a generous alcohol content. The easiest thing would be getting a wine different from Rebecca’s, so that they could swap contents and taste both. Others had already decided and stated their preferences; Altair had leaned towards Desmond to make sure that the accompanying happy hour snacks would have been served as well, because he was hungry, and Desmond nodded enthusiastically because he also was hungry. Lucy had ordered her cocktail, an Americano, and Michael his beer, a European IPA. There were just three of them missing. Rebecca gathered her courage and went with the Pinot Noir, which made Malik go for the Chappellet, without being beating around the bush about it. The Syrian moved his back from the sofa’s padding and spoke high enough to be heard over the chatter, the glasses’ clicking and the laughter coming from the people who were already tipsy at the nearby tables.  
– A glass of the 2013 one. –  
Malik said, shortly, hoping that he wouldn’t have to repeat himself. He threw his back against the comfortable sofa again, free from his obligations.  
– Oh, do you drink? –  
That question cut the air in two, stopping the ticking of time. Malik suddenly got alert and curved his eyes towards the guilty voice: Shaun. The British man was placing tobacco in rolling paper: his elbows tight at his hips and industrious fingers, same as a fly over dog shit. Yes, Shaun had asked him indeed, because his clear eyes were fixed on the Syrian cook, and it was obvious even from behind the glasses’ lenses. Malik cast a shadow of reproach in his tough stare, and the wait for an answer made chatter die in the rest of the table, and chatter suddenly turned into embarrassed silence. Something was wrong in the atmosphere.  
Shaun, interrupting all of his motions, was still as a statue, frozen by that stare that hurt by afar, and he was trying to ask for help with body language. He had understood he said something rude, but he hadn’t understood what. The only poor bastard who kept on smiling, skirting close to feeble, was the waiter, who had a few orders left to go before he let the group alone handling that faux pas.  
– Why, shouldn’t I? –  
Malik asked, sure of the line of action – or better, reaction – that he had decided to follow. His counter-question was the official beginning of the dialogue in between the two, which also ratified the suspension of any other verbal exchange going around the table. No one talked, everyone stared. Altair, who had been leaning towards Desmond before, now was with both his elbows on the table, his back straight and his stare intent on eating up the discontent on Malik’s face, put there by that asshole Shaun. He didn’t like when anyone else – that wasn’t him of course – bothered Malik, especially if was the same dumbass interrupting his hit-on attempt a few days before in the changing room. Even if, he admitted, when Malik’s even and thick eyebrows came closer to each other, scrunching up, when his sharp eyes turned as thin as fissures, and when his lips went rigid, offended, Malik didn’t lose an inch of his charm: actually, to be entirely truthful, when he chose to stop laying low and moved on to attack, savage and aggressive like a red lynx, Malik became even sexier, if even possible. Which brought Altair to making strange associations, wild and unstable, such as, was Malik aggressive as that in the bedroom as well, under the sheets?  
Everyone had smelled the tension in the air, but no one had the courage to do something about it, letting the directly involved handle it. Shaun was cursing himself mentally and his too-quick tongue, which, to his defense, hadn’t meant anything maliciously; he shrugged, trying to put on the clothes of the sap that crossed over into private property just to get back a ball he kicked too hard, too far, in a dangerous field he doesn’t know.  
– No, I mean, I just thought that… –  
He started, trying to lessen the friction of everyone else’s stare, Malik first of all, rolling the tobacco again, raising it towards his lips and gluing it after licking the paper.  
– That since my surname is _Al-Sayf_ then I don’t drink alcohol? –  
Malik hadn’t just asked Shaun a rhetorical question, he had literally spit it in his face with disdain in his eyes and arrogance in his voice. The Brit received that dig like a kick in the family jewels, knowing that he hadn’t managed to save himself. He thought that yes, maybe he had made a faux-pas with that statement stained in light prejudice, but he also thought that Malik was extremely sensitive on that topic, if not obviously getting cranky over it.  
– Okay, okay, are we done ordering? –  
Rebecca said, sliding into the conversation like a fly in your eye when you jog, uselessly trying to save Shaun from the still moderate aggression of the irritable Syrian. A couple of the others cleared their throat and shrugged, as if they wanted to get out of the situation with as much nonchalance as possible. Lucy also stepped in, at least trying to save the waiter from embarrassment, as the man was still waiting for the last two orders, Desmond and Altair. She put a hand on Altair’s arm, asking her friend’s cousin which beer he wanted. A part of Altair’s brain was translating into warmth the perception of Lucy’s fingers digging into his hoodie’s cloth; but every other part of him was focused somewhere else, for example, on how Malik was the most interesting snake he ever ran into. There was the pride of uniqueness in him, the subtle intellect of a Greek Athena, the savageness of an uncharted jungle, but also the grace of an Arctic fox. How could someone like him resist? Someone who had lunch with bread and peanut butter? Desmond’s face was covered in cold sweat, both because he was stuck in the narrow bottleneck that was the table’s current situation and because Lucy asked him a question that required a quick and precise answer. He didn’t handle the pressure and just mentioned the first beer he remembered when in normal circumstances it’d have taken him at least another ten minutes to pick one with correct judgment and full awareness. Given how he was always, mathematically unlucky, it was very probable he just picked the one beer he’d have liked least.  
– Come on, mate… –  
Shaun said, having exhausted any other logical argumentation in his favor: he was putting himself in the hangman’s hands. Malik stayed with his back on the small sofa and his body rigid, so he could inflict his constant judgment on Shaun. If it had been the first time in his life that he got such a comment he’d have just raised his eyes to the sky, sighed with some prima-donna worthy dramatics and be done with it, without wasting time putting dots on the _is_ and discussing things. But the contrary was also true: he had been swallowing his entire life those superficial and asinine comments, that only revealed the abyss separating him from the rest of the world. America never felt wide enough to him, regardless of how much time he lived here, or the habit of living here, and time and habit both failed to anesthetize his polemic streak and the bad vice of protesting everything.  
– Anything else you think you know about me, or you’d like to ask first? –  
Malik kept on sinking his teeth in the prey’s artery with the face of a vexed feline, implacable. Shaun, having finished with his cigarette, was turning it in between his fingers with his eyes low, shaking his head with a bitter smile on his face. He knew there was nothing to reply. The only solution was to let Malik unload and take the hit like a true boxer.  
– Well, my surname’s Arabic too but I do drink alcohol. –  
A voice, thick to the point of darkness, raised from the middle of the tarnished conversation. Malik looked at where the words in his defense were coming from, and were sitting next to him saying, _we’re the same, I understand you_. The suspicion of who had pronounced them was confirmed by his sight, also because no one else in that table had Middle-Eastern traits, except for him and…  
– It’s more complicated than that. –  
All the eyes on the table, waiter included, were now on Altair, who shocked all of the present people not just because hearing him talk was a happening as frequent as a full moon, but mostly because he had said something agreeable and sensed, even smart.  
– I think. –  
Altair added, feeling the weight of the stares upon him. With that addition, he finished his contribution, shrugged and looked down, not thinking it would have caused such surprise. Lucy, who still had a hand on his arm, turned to the waiter who had been forced to suffer more than necessary, picking for Altair herself, and excusing him, finally. If her friend didn’t like the beer she picked for him she was just going to buy him a new one. The poor waiter ran away from the table, hating his job as he never had before that evening. Now there was another smell in the air mixing with hop, lime from cocktails and grease of fries with ketchup: the smell of truce. The distance separating them from peace seemed to have been covered some. Malik didn’t deny it, he was impressed. He’d have never thought Altair could say something on the topic, or better, that he could say anything at all, and the fact that he put himself in the front line and empathized with him, putting himself in his shoes… well, even an ice heart like his own could appreciate the relief of an uncalled-for spontaneous aid.  
But.  
There was always a _but_ in Malik’s math, like the ghost of the personal profit that he always saw in other people’s actions. No one was nice without a reason, not in the world he knew. From there, the jump was quick: did Altair intervene because he hoped to somehow gain something from it? Did he want to earn his esteem? Push him to feel like he owed him? Make a good impression on him? Licking the shell of his ear with those words so it’d melt? It could be anything, and the best plan always was to keep oneself open to all possibilities. If law dictates _innocent until proved contrary_ , Malik’s personal law was _culprit until proved innocent_. But truthfully, both of them didn’t have much time to talk through looking at each other because when Rebecca placed her chill hand on Malik’s neck, the young man was brought back to the present moment, abandoning fantasies and conjectures, and some of that anger that had kick-started his reaction. Rebecca’s fingers brushed against his neck’s skin and his hairline. That’s all it took for Malik to feel tamed, and more willing to suspend the conflict.  
What could a woman’s fingers do.  
– Don’t get angry… –  
Rebecca told him with a smile that clashed with the unhappy expression in her eyes. She looked like an older sister who wanted to calm the irritable spirit of the younger brother. The Syrian found her touch full of care pleasant, and so he decided to take the advice and give up.  
Rebecca was nice. Rebecca was a girl. Rebecca could touch him.  
– Oh, leave Malik alone for me, won’t you? –  
Michael said from the other head of the table, to launch an arrow in his defense and (also) hit him with a sedative. With a group attack, maybe they could manage to mollify him. Michael’s voice obtained the desired effect, because that man was good at fathering more or less everyone. Malik accepted that verbal caress and Michael winked with a smile that would have left speechless even Freddy Krueger. The cook raised his white flag: he was going to behave and shut up. Actually, he couldn’t wait to have his glass of red between his hands so he could drown words and arguments in alcohol. Fuck ideological battles and fighting windmills; superficial people could stay under their bell jar encrusted with intellectual laziness.  
From that point on, the climate went back to acquiring normal, fresh, relaxed edges again, but tonic enough that it wasn’t getting boring. Shaun went out to smoke his cigarette before their drinks came and Rebecca, after cuddling Malik a bit more, joined Shaun outside, taking the role of the mediator and trying to talk to him to get the two men to make peace. Inside, the others were trying to defuse the tension with lighter conversation topics, as carefree as possible. Lucy, Altair and Desmond, even if they were grouping before they knew each other from before, were good at never excluding Michael and most of all Malik, who, after that displeasing step in the wrong direction, needed to be distracted more than anyone else. Their drinks came, and it was useless to say that when they did, tension went from tactile to incorporeal, evaporating away like formality and manners. Shaun and Rebecca came back and the British men went close to Malik, as if to take him to one side, starting to apologize with his theatrical ways but also with undeniable sincerity. Malik, who was already feeling less angry, accepted more easily the apologies and showed that he was amenable to make amends. He was more than convinced that he hadn’t exaggerated when reacting, before, because Shaun’s comment was born out of blind prejudice – maybe naïve and not malicious, but surely a prejudice. Cutting it short, Malik was perfectly aware that he was entirely right. But knowing this, he knew that deciding to forgive Shaun was merely the proof of his own superiority, both intellectual and on a general maturity level, as his own was at light-years distance from the Brit and from a lot of other people he had known. Because it’s a lot easier to excuse someone that we think of as a complete idiot or an absolute incompetent.  
In practice, the people we consider inferior.  
The wine was good, not that any of them was much of an expert (if Ezio had been there…) and both the beers and Lucy’s cocktail were good as well. Poor Desmond got it good in the end; his beer wasn’t too bad, though it wasn’t what he’d have picked with his usual extremely stretched and super-diluted times. For Altair, the situation was entirely different: he hadn’t picked his beer either, even if he never paid much attention to what alcohol he swallowed down, usually. What mattered to him wasn’t the taste, but rather the effect of the alcohol in his body, the mental and emotional state that he reached as he convinced himself to let go as ethanol made its way inside his muscular fibers and in his conscience. If it happened with wine, beer, vodka, rum or gin, he didn’t really care. When it came to eat, drink and dress, he never was much of a pretentious person, and he only wasted time on the most important things to him: sport and sex.  
Lately, there had been an addition to those two priorities: _Mr. Sarcasm_ , as in, Malik Al-Sayf, who Altair would have willingly included in the sex category. But the young man was forced to deal with reality: that desire couldn’t depend just from him. He had to adapt. He had to wait. He had to organize things. He even had to think. Which never happened to him before, not when courting people. The closest he had come to wooing someone had been with _Maria_ , many years before. But she was a woman, and it couldn’t be the same thing. Or at least, it wasn’t for Altair. He put to the side the memory of his historical ex-girlfriend and focused back on the present and remain anchored to his targets. He was always so adjusted to throw in people’s faces how much no one could let the golden chance that he, Altair Ibn-La’Ahad, was, that he had never though on how hard could it be to _convince_ someone to give him a chance. Everything was obvious, everything was natural, everything was easy. He was good-looking and had a dirty charisma, charming in its incivility, magnetic because he talked little and touched a lot; he had a nice, lean body, great for _The Bachelor_ , and he knew that in between his legs he had a first-rated dick, that he was proud of as he’d have been of a medical degree.  
As it was easy to grasp, no one ever told him _no_. So, finding himself fighting for someone, training his insistence – but also the manners to use while applying it – to be patient and not to assault, was bringing him in uncharted territory, a game whose rules he didn’t know. Adapting wasn’t easy, but he was trying his best.  
He was _really_ interested in Malik now, more than he could explain.  
It hadn’t started like that, in the beginning: Altair had met Malik, saw he was a nice-looking guy, and thought he’d have had sex with him. The most classical way to start things: _why not?_ But then, human curiosity had joined sexual interest, and charming personal conquest had gained tinges of more hues, more complex: there was something in Malik he liked beyond that nice face with Eastern traits, that surely had put under a spell many others. Tasting and owning him was his forbidden dream and had been for almost three months now, and that desire was constant and still as granite; but Altair thought Malik a fascinating creature nevertheless: the things he said, how he said them, and most of all the ones he didn’t say: his body language, the looks that spoke more than words: not counting the constant sensation that, behind silences and sighs, Malik always knew what was happening around them. But still, for some reason that Altair couldn’t understand, Malik loved to pretend, watching from backstage and letting the others move first. He was tremendously complex, and it was hellish. But for one like Altair, who was adjusted to win without any effort, it only could be a challenge. He accepted willingly to add a piece to Malik’s puzzle, and he was glad he could witness another aspect of his that evening: the fierceness and brutality with which he fought and defended himself only managed to make him even more desirable. He was strong and sure of himself, smart and scathing, free and transgressive. He adored him. Altair loved the way Malik defended himself, how he raised up to the challenge immediately and showed his claws. He was a guy who could definitely take care of himself, but nonetheless, Altair wasn’t going to stay silent when having to face a slight directed at him. No one should dare to bother or treat badly his beloved, his secret prey that he glanced at from afar like a shadow, his unspeakable nocturnal thought. And that impulse of possessiveness and ownership, that smelled a bit of wrongness, was making Altair warm up, in the illusion that he could bring Malik closer, make him a bit more _his_. But Mr. Sarcasm was smart; he had to pay attention. And as much as the evening moved forward calmly enough and more or less the way everyone had expected a pre-free-day meeting to be, it didn’t stop Altair’s thoughts from becoming tougher and lose themselves in the foreseeing of future happenings. The threads of their dynamics could writhe and tangle in infinite combinations, but in the end of it there were only two plausible scenarios: one where everything goes the way you hope, and another where everything goes to hell.

_The Bangles_ , who were accompanying the evening with their _Manic Monday_ , were repeating how much they wished for it to be Sunday already and their request was satisfied in a few minutes: once the clock hit midnight and the 13th of November started, all of them were done with the first round. Some had been quicker, other slower. Michael had been the slowest of them all, as he had left a third of his IPA; but no one was going to scold him for it, they knew he could only have alcohol in moderation. The hour and a half that had just passed had been as quick as an allergic reaction under antihistamine; Malik and Shaun had made peace with each other for good; Altair was sitting again like a Texan cow-herder, his hands stuck in the hoodie’s pockets and his stare downwards like an outskirts drug-dealer; Lucy was talking with Michael, her back concave that drew a perfect _S_ from her neck to her tailbone, a shape more elegant than a swan in mating season. Finally, Rebecca was talking to Desmond about the best places to eat tacos in the city. Then a phone rang.  
It took Malik a few seconds to notice that his cellphone was vibrating in his jeans’ pocket, where he kept it. He put his conversation with Shaun on hold, lifted a hip to take his phone and immediately looked at the caller, even if he had a suspicion already: Kadar. He smiled without thinking about it, as it rarely happened, knowing that his brother would always be the first calling him for birthday wishes, like every year. Malik moved his back from the sofa and bent forward, pressing his phone to his ear, hoping that music and chattering wouldn’t drown out the voices too much.  
– Hey. –  
He replied with the tone of someone who already knows the call’s reason.  
– Hey you, old man. –  
Kadar stopped way more than it was necessary on the last vocal in that word, which made Malik smile.  
– Happy birthday! –  
His younger brother went on, happily.  
– Thanks. –  
Malik immediately said, putting his elbows on the table and canting his head to the side. He’d have rather had that call somewhere isolated, or at worst he could have walked out, but it would have caused too much of a mess and disturbed too many people.  
– Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday. –  
Kadar started like a broken record, without catching his breath. It was obvious from his voice that he was smiling with all his teeth showing from the other side of the phone. Malik managed a laugh, because he felt like the others were staring at him too much and he didn’t like being stared at. He put his chin on a hand’s palm, trying to look natural.  
– Okay, okay. Thank you. –  
Malik tried to cut him short to spare himself the embarrassment.  
– Everything confirmed for tomorrow then? –  
Kadar asked, like an overexcited dog. Malik tried to recall the entire plan that his brother organized for him, but he only remembered bits and pieces, so he lied.  
– Sure, sure. –  
He nodded, turning in between his fingers the glass that he had in front of him, long empty. The wine was great, but he had already forgotten the name. Malik looked up, finding himself staring at Altair’s pupils, swallowing him in. Once again, his fellow Syrian was showing how he didn’t have the minimum discretion. Someone normal would have looked away if they had manners, or they’d have pretended to not look at him during a private conversation, or at worst they’d have smiled so that they wouldn’t have looked like some kind of dangerous interference. On the contrary, Altair didn’t, and even if he has been caught right as he pointed his eyes in Malik’s direction, it seemed like he couldn’t care less and kept on looking at him while he was talking on the phone. The cook found that impertinence really insufferable; Altair’s life was devoted to self-indulging. Malik’s only distraction where he could find refuge in were Rebecca’s motions at his left, as she stopped talking to Desmond in order to hurry up and check something on her phone.  
– I told Mom to make _ma’amoul_ , is that good? –  
Malik’s thoughts filled up with memories made of smells. A melancholic nostalgia immediately took hold of him, and suddenly he felt all alone in the room.  
– I’d say of course, ask her the ones with- –  
– Date and pistachios. I know. –  
Kadar spoke for him before he could say it, with a know-it-all tone. Malik smiled.  
– How good of you. –  
He answered, already tasting the sugary flavor of date that joined the nuts’ stronger one in the mix. The dessert that no cheesecake could ever beat, and with which he was getting ready to blow on his twenty-five candles. A quarter of a century had gone, fast as a sequence of sneezes.  
– Hey, sorry, I’ve got to go... –  
The sorrow in Malik’s voice was sincere. If he could choose, he certainly would have chosen to talk to Kadar on the phone instead of with his colleagues in the flesh.  
– … I’m with the others. –  
He added as a real excuse. Malik then spent another couple of minutes on confirming time and place where they should meet the next day – or better, that same one – and said goodbye to his little brother, who had waited for midnight to call him. He closed the call. He felt lighter, because now he didn’t have to check every gesture or word in front of all the others. Malik looked up again and found Altair still there, with his eyes fixed on him and his legs spread like scissors under the table. He wanted to scream. But then, the unexpected happened.  
– Happy birthday, Malik! –  
Rebecca screamed, jumping on the sofa, and making sure that all the present people heard her exclamation. Malik’s stomach was suddenly empty of wine and snacks, and dropped into the abyss of shame. If he hated something, it was surprises, and in general everything that went beyond the borders of _foreseeing_ and _preventing_.  
How the hell could it have happened?  
Rebecca had heard bits and pieces of his conversation with Kadar? Strange, because he had put effort into understanding him without losing some words, in between chatter and background music. A general wave of euphoria, surprise and curiosity took hold of the group, and all of them were quick to scream _happy birthday_ and then go on with the usual dumb questions: _why didn’t you tell us? How many? Should we give him a few spankings?_ Rebecca took Malik’s face in her hands to kiss him on the cheek, wishing him happy birthday once more. Again:  
Rebecca was nice. Rebecca was a woman. Rebecca could touch him.  
He hadn’t minded, admittedly, and the contact was also a chance to find out how things had gone: Rebecca, as the others on the team, had Malik added on Facebook, and two days before the site had nicely reminded her that his birthday was coming up in a day. Put the information aside, the fact that Malik had gotten a call at midnight and _thank you_ being the first thing he had said had reminded the girl of that notification. So she had grabbed her cellphone and checked his profile for confirmation, and from then on, it was history.  
Malik had to thank all of them, _all_ , until his jaw ached. Michael had insisted, along with Shaun and Rebecca, to get some mixed shots brought to the table, so that they could have a final toast for the birthday boy. Malik had tried to convince them against it, first, and to pay for his own part, after, but no one would hear about it. Malik gave up, exhausted, and let every protest die in his larynx. What arrived after was a tray full of small glasses, filled with alcoholic drinks, creatively mixed and made of brilliant colors. Desmond, who had always worked as a barista until then, noticed how great the presentation was, and the taste as well. Michael was the only one who didn’t drink, and everyone decided of common accord that the leftover shot would go to the Syrian birthday boy. Malik, therefore, was forced to get two in a row, with great satisfaction of the other guys, who applauded almost madly, as if at the end of an incredible performance. The evening was done a short while later, and before one AM all of them were outside the place. When the group moved to the check out, Malik had been ferociously kept apart from it, and that had woken up his warrior side, pushing him to resistance and arguing, still under the illusion that he could stop the inevitable. Eventually, Michael put an arm around his shoulder and dragged him out, so he’d behave. Malik was throwing kicks around internally, staying within the borders of manners just because it was Michael, which to him was some sort of untouchable creature. It took less than a minute and the others came out, too, moving into a sort of uneven circle on the sidewalk, to the side of the pub’s entrance. Shaun was putting another cigarette together, Lucy had an arm under Michael’s because she felt cold and because they were going back home together anyway; Rebecca wasted a few seconds to write her boyfriend, who was coming to get her, saying she was waiting outside the pub; the two cousins were standing close, actually, attached to each other like two chicks, because Altair was going to bring the younger man home. Malik bit down on his tongue more than once so that he wouldn’t ruin the atmosphere and ask, as direct as a torpedo, who had paid for his share and therefore he owned money to. He waited patiently, pretending to smile at jokes and greetings.  
Then, when the rest of the group gradually started to liquefy and everyone headed home, Malik furtively went up to Lucy, putting a hand inside his coat’s pocket to take out his wallet, begging her to tell him how much exactly he owed her. Lucy shrugged, ignoring the request; she really wanted nothing to do with it. Michael suggested the other man to stop worrying: it was his birthday, it had been a pleasure and so on. But Malik confirmed himself to be a stubborn and weepy beast, who didn’t suffer people paying him favors and gratuitous generosity – always suspicious. Being in debt, to him, meant feeling observed while you’re sitting down in the bathroom: nothing will be out until that unpleasant sensation doesn’t leave. Malik insisted so much that eventually he drove Lucy to exhaustion, while Michael’s internal plumbing system most likely could reabsorb and filter the waters of irritation. Making him angry seemed like an impossible mission. The blonde, who really wanted to just go home, finally confessed and told Malik that at the check-out Altair had insisted to pay the entire bill, and so it had gone.  
His life’s sense of humor sucked.  
Malik quickly said goodbye to his bosses, receiving the umpteenth _happy birthday_ from them both. He had been born just an hour ago and he already wanted to die. He went back, quickly glancing around, hoping that some of the other guys were around, or that at least Altair was. Luckily, or maybe the contrary, he saw a large motorcycle some ten feet from there, stuck to the sidewalk, still held up by the kickstand. Next to it, there were Desmond and Altair. The youngest was putting on the second helmet while Altair, with his own under his arm, was reaching for his gloves. A car passing by honked a couple of times – from the passenger’s window, Rebecca’s arm shot out, waving as it cut through the cold air in a gesture of salutation. Her boyfriend, with whom she was going home, was driving. Desmond followed her with his eyes and waved high, to wave back, while Altair decided it was enough to follow the car with his eyes until it turned, silent as an heretic whose tongue has been cut.  
– Altair. –  
Malik called him, his voice high, more than he wanted to, but he couldn’t risk that Altair wouldn’t hear him and leave. Altair immediately turned, recognizing the cook as he approached. Altair’s body moved on its own, while his eyes were alight with that luminous dust named curiosity. Desmond, with the helmet on his head already, leaned against the bike and started scrolling through Instagram, quietly waiting. Altair and Malik finally arrived a few feet from each other.  
Altair was done pulling on his gloves and he kept a considerably heavy helmet under his left arm, as considerable as his bike. Certainly, a sports model, Malik thought, but he couldn’t have identified it: a Kawasaki, maybe. Altair’s feet were well-planted on the ground, his legs relaxed, his eyes fixed on the cook. He knew that it wasn’t up to him to start talking. Ironically, Malik didn’t want to waste too many words, and if he could have solved the matter in the span of forty-five seconds at most, he’d have been really grateful. Skipping niceties, Malik immediately took his wallet out of his pocket, and opened it in front of his coworker.  
– I know you paid. –  
He said, quick and concise, head bent low, thumbing through the notes from five to ten dollars, mentally doing the math for how much that wine and those shots might have cost. Then he saw a hand come into his vision, placing itself over Malik’s own, the one that was about to take the money out. Malik raised his face, surprised by such a bold move. If anything, Altair’s glove, rough and formal, was isolating their skins from direct contact, which made that moment devoid of any spark.  
– Leave that. –  
Altair said, blunt as an executive director in a tax office. Malik, though, didn’t let that discourage him and put on a condescending stare with which he wanted to win.  
– You won’t pay for me. –  
He fought, without showing his teeth, and moving his fingers on the notes even if Altair’s heavy hand was on his exactly to avoid that.  
– Consider it a birthday gift. –  
Said Altair, as easy as still water.  
Here. Now Malik had heard enough bullshit. But the little fairy of his conscience whispered in his ear that he didn’t need to be rude or, worst, offensive. In between action and reaction, proportion had to reign. Defending oneself was fine, but attacking without a reason would have made him childish. So Malik grasped the reins of his instincts, reigning them in, thinking about how he could quickly get that thorn off his side. Altair, meanwhile, was still looking at him with a cherub’s calm and grace.  
– There’s no need at all. –  
Malik replied, showing off diplomacy that surprised himself. Altair took back his hand, and the glove’s roughness scratch against one of Malik’s knuckles. There was a shy ten bucks note peeking from the wallet’s cloth, but it was going to stay there, because Altair had decided already: he moved his lips and hinted a smile, a small one, a bit lopsided and awkward, the kind of smile you hold back, but not because of shame.  
– I don’t want the money back. –  
Altair stated again, tenacious, playing at who had it bigger. Malik understood that he had to change his tactics, and with a sigh he warmed up his engines to get ready for attack.  
– Listen… –  
Malik started, set on throwing manners in the toilet. But, instead of manners, his plans ended up in the toilet instead, because his interlocutor stopped him before he could start, as if he never finished talking in the first place.  
– But I have a solution. –  
Altair said, taking his helmet in his hands, putting it over his head and starting to put it on. A slightly know-it-all gesture with which he had decided – on his own – that the conversation was done. And Malik just wanted to kick him in his gums. The helmet was now completely slipped over that head with holes in it, and the only thing that remained of Altair’s face were his amber-colored eyes.  
– Let’s say you owe me a favor, instead. –  
Said Altair, his voice muffled by the helmet. He was smiling behind it, Malik was certain: he could feel it from the tone of his voice and he could see it from his eyes. What an asshole. Malik had just wanted a glass of red that night and ended up in the middle of a conspiracy instead, along with the person occupying the first place in the list of waste. The cook scrunched his eyes, enraged by that arrogant proposal in which just one of them won. And now, it wasn’t him. Altair had obtained from him a lot more than he had promised himself he’d give. And that was absolutely bothersome, and it was strengthening his suspicions that Altair was sneakily trying to hit on him. Maybe he really was less of an idiot than he looked like.  
That said, that made him angry.  
The only thing that Malik could concede him was that he had guts putting himself on the line, since Altair had no idea that he was open to both poles when it came to sex. In that sense, Altair was throwing himself into a void hoping that it would pay off, that his parachute would open, and that Malik would be an open kind of guy, who was down with experimentation; admittedly, that was absolutely true, but at that point Malik would have rather kept that from Altair even more, if only out of spite. There remained the fact, undeniable at this point, that Altair had been _good_. Good in the way he had caught his chance and brought water to his own windmill, good in how skilled it was at advancing on tiptoes, good in the care he put into keeping provocation and discipline in equilibrium… In a few words: What. A. Pain. In. The. Ass.  
Altair gave Malik his side, ready to run without giving him a chance to protest.  
– See you. –  
And with that greeting, he let the curtain of his own show fall down. Malik grimaced, having lost all his motivation to fight back and show him what was what at once. The mere idea of owing him something was making his skin crawl and his balls twist in a Gordian knot. And instead, Malik had lost. He had been forced by that dumb cash situation to get closer to Altair and, exactly because the circumstances forced him to, Malik had moved cautiously, assuming he would have to pay attention, not so differently from how couples go for coitus interruptus. Instead, Altair had gotten the best of him, and riding on that same metaphor, he had come inside him without Malik even noticing.  
– Tsk. –  
The Syrian cook clicked his tongue on his upper teeth, full of disdain and with distress drawn on his face that not even a twelve-hour sleep could have fixed. Altair was giving him the shoulders now, and he was leaving. Malik couldn’t swallow that bad taste of failure that he felt responsible for. He could feel it in his throat like bolus stuck in his pharynx. He lowered his head and shook it, cursing that he hadn’t paid attention. He closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket, cursing like an offended mother in law.  
– Happy birthday, again. –  
Malik raised his eyes: Altair was moving towards his bike still, but walking backwards like a shrimp, so that he could look at Malik. _Happy birthday my ass_ , the cook thought, and he refrained from showing him a lovely middle finger, and then he turned without thanking him. He raised his eyes to the starry sky and felt as undone as a bed at the end of an orgy. Malik insulted himself in all three languages he knew – Arab, English and Turkish – and walked with restless step until he reached his car, that he had left near the _Half Moon_ , while his cellphone had been vibrating in his pocket once in a while. Surely, it was just notifications of birthday wishes from every social media they could come from; messages written on automatic from people who, for a good two thirds, he’d have ignored gladly; ugly emoticons and old-ass smileys just to make him believe that they really remembered him, or that they cared about him. And, sure, the grand finale of the evening: an idiot who only speaks in monosyllables, only full of stale air, who was maybe yes or maybe not putting a move on him, named Altair Ibn-La’Ahad, who had imposed on him a troublesome debt, that no one knew when and how he would have chosen to cash in.  
Nice overture, for his twenty-fifth year.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful flowers,
> 
> Yeah, I’m not dead.
> 
> It’s been a very long time since the last update and I haven’t been active for about two months or more.
> 
> I don’t know if a few people are still interested or following the fic, but I’m sorry about the lack of updating and the latest inactivity. I’m going to explain why, since about three months ago I moved completely alone into another country looking for a better life, better job, personal balance, independence… all the good stuff.
> 
> It’s been three months of more downs than ups. It’s been a tough period, full of stress, anxiety, uncertainty. Adapting and settling down in a completely new place is something that requires a lot of time and patience, resistance and motivation, and there have been moments when I was so worried about how to survive (earn money, find a new accommodation, bureaucracy and paperwork) than creativity was something I couldn’t really even think about, as far as I’ve missed writing a whole lot to the point of hurting.
> 
> That said, two months ago I’ve found a steady job and today I’ve signed my new rental contract and I’m moving into my new (this time, nice) house. So, rough time should be over now, or nearly ended, and I’m about to have finally more time for myself, for getting back to writing my fucking 10.000.000 words universe.
> 
> To whoever is still following, or would like to continue: thank you and lots of love to you.

_November 26th, 2016.  
New York City_

– Do you want these higher? –  
Desmond tried to meet Lucy’s eyes as he lowered his head and looked into the space in between his open arms, stretched upward and holding a wire full of Christmas lights. Lucy moved back on the sidewalk from the ladder Desmond was perched on so that she could see the full picture of the composition.  
– Mmh. –  
She was thinking.  
– Lucy? –  
Desmond asked, starting to doubt that his boss was still around.  
– The right end, just a bit higher. Leave the wire hanging down in the middle. –  
Lucy put her hands on her hips, sharpened her stare and waited. If there was a step higher than perfection’s, she wanted to be on it. Desmond followed the instructions, thinking that he never hated the Christmas climate that had started with Black Friday so much. When he finally placed the last end, he exhaled a breath of relief. He couldn’t wait to be back inside the shop, because not even the winter coat was preventing his nose from freezing after an hour outside. With his well-gloved hands he grasped the ladder’s sides and slowly descended every step. Once his feet were on the ground, he glanced around to find Lucy, hoping that the people walking like splinters on the sidewalk wouldn’t run into him. The woman, a bit behind him, was keeping her arms folded, with her wool beanie only letting the edges of her fringe out, while a big cream scarf swallowed her face, from chin to nose. Lucy motioned for Desmond to come closer and her employee obeyed, considering that he wasn’t dependent on her just from a work-related standpoint. He moved on her side, smiling for a moment and inhaling, just to make sure his nose was still attached to his face and he didn’t lose it thanks to the biting cold. He looked at his work: it seemed straight.  
– Do you like it? –  
Desmond asked sincerely, as he always was. Lucy was taken from a sudden chill that froze the answer in her throat. She turned to Desmond and he infected her with his lips curved upward.  
– I’ll tell you in a moment. –  
She motioned towards one of the windows behind which Michael was standing. With a lot of patience, he had waited that moment for one single, simple gesture, though fundamental. Michael moved away from the glass he was leaning against and moved his index towards the light switch to which the plug for the entire, wire-y machine was attached. He pressed it and it was immediately Christmas: all the lights around the shop’s sign and windows turned on at once, lightening the sidewalk and making sure that everyone walking on the street looked up to check that whirlwind of colors.  
– Nice. –  
Desmond was standing enchanted in front of the decorations turning on and off. Blue, red, yellow, purple and green were exploding vividly in his irises and it was enough to make him feel like he was a child all over again, a bit. Lucy was smiling, satisfied, and gave Michael thumbs up that was reciprocated from behind the glass.  
– Thanks to you. –  
Lucy told the young man while a small cloud of mist left her lips. It was a rotten cold, but she liked cotton too much, and courage wasn’t enough to keep her warm. Desmond looked at her like a young pupil who just got a great grade on knowing the times table, and he stayed silent, watching the fluorescent hues of color that those light kisses left on her skin.  
– How are you doing, Des? –  
Lucy spoke again, still contemplating that paste-made show. And she added:  
– On the job, I mean. –  
Desmond blinked, like someone who’s just gone back to Earth after years spent among aliens. Work, right. What else?  
– Great. –  
Desmond shrugged, forgetting the cold and feeling warmed up by something else.  
– I like the kitchen and the guys are amazing. –  
He added, without pretending anything. Lucy smiled with her eyes, because her mouth was under the scarf, and she uncurled her arms, her hands going into her coat’s pockets.  
– Yeah, they are. –  
A soft silence fell in between the two of them and both stood still like two street vendors who have nothing left to sell anymore. If it had started snowing in that moment, it would have been a perfect setting for a movie.  
– Do you miss the bar? –  
Lucy asked, maybe feeling like chatting that evening. Desmond curled his lips while he moved his eyes to the heads of people passing by. Of course he missed it.  
– Nah. –  
He lied, knowing he wasn’t good at it. Lucy cocked her head and raised her eyebrows, and there was nothing to add. Desmond went back on it.  
– The work, maybe… but the owners were assholes. –  
Desmond’s stare got sour just thinking about it.  
– I remember what Altair told me. –  
Lucy showed her emphatic side, which she sometimes kept too relaxed. Desmond looked at his feet, inhaled again and suddenly he joined his cousin, Lucy and his thankfulness in one single soap bubble.  
– Thanks for what you did for _him_. –  
He said, inserting Altair into the conversation as a silent and unknowing participant.  
– He will be eternally grateful for that, you know? –  
Desmond kept on, with a final question mark that was actually a full stop. Lucy shook her head, relenting and laughing such a small laugh that it got lost in the scarf’s wool.  
– Now don’t start again. –  
But Desmond latched on that smile that he didn’t want to let go, still, and he insisted.  
– No, really … –  
He turned his feet and moved completely on his side, as if her profile wasn’t enough anymore.  
– Thanks. –  
Desmond stayed there, staring at her blonde curls showing out of the beanie and those blue eyes that sometimes, with the right light, seemed grey. Lucy lowered her scarf, imitating him and staring straight at him, too.  
– Don’t thank me. –  
She glanced at the window and saw that Michael had disappeared.  
– We help each other in between friends. –  
Desmond nodded and smiled at Lucy, the girl he had liked since he was a teenager with too little hair on his chest to play being a man.  
– I see that he’s doing really all right. It seems like he settled now. –  
He commented, trying to get some feedback.  
– Don’t you think? –  
Lucy smiled and, like an eraser on a blackboard that cancels chalk, it was enough to kill every insecurity. She turned to look at the lights, exploding on her, and she offered the young man a verbal confirmation, too:  
– Yes. –  
Desmond found the angle he was looking at Lucy right now absolutely perfect: if only he could have brushed the soft, turtle-dove curve of her neck, he was sure he’d have found it smooth and polished like a quartz sculpture. But Desmond let that wish go with a sigh.  
– He could do with seeing someone. –  
Lucy added, after a pause so long that she forgot when the silence had begun. At that point Desmond made an association in a flash, because his friend’s comment had reminded him of info he had obtained a while ago, during an unexpected conversation.  
– But you know… he might have a secret admirer? –  
Desmond said with even too much enthusiasm. Lucy turned and stared at the young man.  
– Altair? –  
She asked, wanting confirmation. Desmond nodded like a guy who’s just been asked if he likes chocolate. Lucy’s face stained with a few drops of doubt.  
– Come on … –  
She didn’t know if she should be surprised or happy. She found it strange that Altair hadn’t told her any of it yet. If it was the case, she’d have felt (secretly) offended.  
– Malik told me that some guy he knows asked information about Altair. –  
Desmond confessed without feeling any weight on his shoulders for it, not thinking that it might have been a reserved information to keep with more care and secrecy.  
– Ah. –  
Lucy didn’t add anything at that statement, told as if it was nothing. Then her attention fell on a specific part of that sentence that didn’t seem at all irrelevant to her.  
– Wait, did you say a _guy_? –  
The phlegmy rumble of a four-cylinder came out like smoke from the muffler of a sports bike, large as a cow, that braked with a squeal on the edge of the sidewalk, just behind Lucy’s shoulders; she turned, disturbed, while Desmond was already with a smile on his face.  
– Speaking of the devil! –  
Desmond raised his closed fist towards his reckless cousin, as the latter never lost a chance to show off how much he could be a coarse hick. Altair, with the helmet still on, turned off the engine and straightened up, returning Desmond’s fist, hitting his knuckles.  
– What, you were talking shit about me? –  
Altair asked, the tone smoothed by the whole entrapment around his head. Lucy shook her head, taking a step back from the bike and realizing just then that Altair had been less than three feet away from hitting the both of them. Typical. In his case, one’s teens weren’t a phase of life, they were a choice.  
– Us? Nah, why would you say that? –  
Desmond said, sticking his gloved hands inside his pocket and laughing on his own. Altair took off the helmet, uncovering his beautiful sharp face and his combed hair, because it was too short to get ruffled. His amber eyes, hit by the Christmas lights, changed tonality like a chameleon’s skin.  
– So, you were talking about how hot I am? –  
Altair kept on asking, without even pretending he was joking. Lucy raised her eyes to the sky, her entire demeanor screaming, _here we are again_. She turned completely towards the shop’s sign, fixing her woolen hat on her forehead and slipping that conversation with Desmond, brutally interrupted, in her drawer of memories.  
– Come on, you idiot. –  
Desmond replied, still showing off a toothy smile. Altair was the purest moronic nonsense made flesh, as in, it was never put in doubt; but it was also because of this that Desmond loved him: feeling insecure, bored, or under pressure with the man at your side was practically impossible. Desmond’s good qualities balanced Altair’s, and harmony reigned.  
– Ah, then, discussing how big am I? –  
Altair added with the tone of a certain hypothesis. He was still comfortably sitting on his bike: the helmet under his arm, his back straight and up, his reproductive equipment pressing with arrogance against the seat as if he was about to grind against a girl. This time it was Desmond to raise his eyes to the sky, while Lucy pretended she hadn’t heard. The small smile on Altair’s thin lips wasn’t going away and he was asking an answer – or at least an insult. This was one of the disadvantages of being friends with him: the total lack of boundaries. All of them, without exclusion.  
– A-ha, sure, _that_ topic exactly… –  
Desmond commented as the great amusement of a few moments before was reshaped by embarrassment. The problem wasn’t, of course, the comment in itself – Desmond was used to hear way worse from Altair – but the fact that Lucy was there. It was as if Desmond felt the need to disinfect everything the girl came in contact with: nothing was supposed to disturb her, anger her or hurt her. The reasons of this duty that he had imposed on himself, he knew, and he confessed them to himself in a whisper. But then Desmond thought that Lucy must have heard a lot of equally dumb bullshit like that, if not worse, spending her teenage years with Altair in school. Maybe the blonde, who Desmond was afraid might break like a tulip’s stem, had a tougher skin than even his own.  
– Ask Lucy. –  
Altair kept on, insisting as he tugged the rope of good taste, still not appeased. With a nod of his head, he motioned towards his friend who had moved a bit away, sure that he had harpooned her for good with that comment. Lucy finally turned towards the both of them; she was composed and absolutely in control, and she wisely managed to keep at bay uncomfortable flashbacks from their youth that she’d rather not think of right now.  
– She knows that. –  
Altair concluded, winking with the corner of his mouth. Now he had put too much mischievousness in the plate’s seasoning, and Lucy didn’t like that dish, and Desmond didn’t either, who didn’t want to know anything about the saucy details of their friendship: it would have made him feel inadequate.  
– Your shift starts in ten minutes. –  
Lucy said with the tone of a military general, looking at Altair, with the clear intention of stopping that game without rules started for a narcissistic whim. Altair understood where this was going, but he knew he had won anyway, so he put the helmet on again and closed his fists on the handles.  
– I know. –  
He deadpanned, without adding anything else important to the conversation. Simply, he just wanted the last word. He turned on the engine and ran off, tires screeching, a while ahead so that he could turn around and park on the other side of the street, where the space for motorcycles was. The only reason Lucy would have agreed with Altair about the size of his cock was to confirm that he was a great dick when he wanted to.

The clock read four PM, and Malik was free.  
Once he handed Rebecca the last mirepoix that he had been worrying about, he had left the kitchen with a relieved breath. Some shifts just ran slower than others. Malik walked inside the changing room, opening the door with his shoulder, and found Altair and Shaun inside: the first was already dressed, good to go for his shift, and was leaning against the lockers with one hand; the second, whose shift had ended along with Malik’s, was still wearing his uniform and he was curled on himself on the bench, blathering something about fish and mercury percentages. Malik walked quickly inside the scene, since he had no time to lose: he had a date. He got close to the lockers, next to where Altair was leaning. On his side, Altair was obviously faking listening to Shaun – especially now that the Syrian cook had entered the scene. Malik ignored them both, with no grudges, but when he realized that Altair’s position was preventing him from opening his own locker he had to speak out: with a sigh in between gritted teeth he slowly raised his eyes, meeting Altair’s hand first, pushing against the small locker with its long, slender fingers. He let his eyes move over to Altair’s left arm, which could say for itself that showed off an excellent definition of biceps, triceps and deltoid. From that point onward, the colleague’s tattoo immediately was noticed, because the sleeve of the t-shirt, rolled over, made it visible. That stylized eagle fit him, because it spread its wings the same way Altair did with his ego. Then Malik’s eyes ended where Altair was waiting for him, as in, in his eyes. Now it was the two of them not listening to Shaun anymore, if he was even still talking. They had locked themselves in their bubble made of glances, silence, competition, dirty flirting and low blows, words that sank like teeth into whipped cream and innuendos that neither of them wanted to make explicit.  
Understanding something was always less fun than playing.  
– You mind? –  
Malik said without even needing to point at Altair’s hand, still there, blocking his locker just to mess with him, he was sure. The colleague dusted his face with a bit of (fake), well-meaning stupor and shrugged, good-natured.  
– Not at all. –  
Altair stretched his arm like a rubber band and moved away. He gave a hint of a smile and said goodbye to Malik with his eyes, turning back and leaving. This time he had been bothersome but at least condensed. The cook opened his locker and started with his usual routine, while Shaun’s voice filled his ears again, and then the sound of the door opening and closing added itself to it. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Altair. Finally, he was leaving to start his shift and be out of Malik’s way. Malik, instead, would have been ready to run in five minutes, and leaving, he would have found Kadar waiting to him, they would eat together and then they would go to the cinema, according to one of their usual hang-outs which Kadar seemed to participate to with more initiative lately. Malik said goodbye to Shaun, knocked on Lucy’s door and said goodbye to her as well, then he walked into the main room and while he nodded towards Desmond, he realized that Altair, at the counter’s corner, was talking to someone: Kadar. Malik’s eyes stung, as if that picture alone was giving him hay fever; he got closer quickly, like a mother accelerating when she sees her two-year old play with a precariously placed vase. Kadar had a paper bag in his hands from which he was eating a meatball, or most likely a falafel, and the smile printed on his face was so sugary that it couldn’t have been brought away not even by a shot of insulin under his skin. Altair, maybe corrupted by Kadar’s skill in influencing people and bringing them where he wanted to, was smiling, too, but a bit more congested. From the way he was looking at Malik’s brother, he was finding him amusing. Which was a bad thing, because Altair shouldn’t in any way, shape or form get close to Kadar if not for serving him something to eat, at most. The bare idea of those two having any degree of confidence with each other was enough to give Malik nightmares.  
– What are you eating? –  
Asked Malik, effectively stabbing that conversation, without worrying about being polite. Kadar almost jumped where he stood when he saw him, not even as if his grandmother had caught him with his fingers in a jam container. Then, with his mouth full and risking to spit the food in his face, he replied:  
– Falafel! –  
He chewed, took some time and swallowed.  
– Altair offered them to me. –  
Kadar added, smiling like a sixteen-year old girl who just was gifted flowers.  
– A-ha. –  
The Syrian cook commented, giving Altair a deathly glare: he had to understand that he couldn’t overstep his boundaries. He was lucky that Kadar was in the middle of it, putting a limit on his bluntness, but that didn’t stop him from trying to express with body language the largest _mind your own fucking business_ he could.  
– Are we going? –  
Kadar asked, grabbing another falafel warm from the oven from the bag. Malik nodded and he moved away so his brother could go first; Kadar turned towards Altair to say goodbye with an ironic military salute, which should have rather been translated as _hasta la vista_.  
– See you! –  
Kadar said, leaving his position. Malik found that expression not correct because no, there was no other reason for which they should see each other again; actually, the fact that Kadar now was okay with coming to get him at the end of his shift to spend some time together, suddenly made him suspicious. And if it was just to see Altair more often? Could it be that he was serious when he said he was interested? Then he thought about how Kadar’s crushes were ever-changing, inconstant and unpredictable, coming and going like clouds dragged by the wind, and he convinced himself to not get too alarmed and keep his extra-diffident nature under control. The answer must have been simpler than he thought: Kadar was just a narcissist little shit who took advantage of any chance he had to enjoy the nice things life offered him, with good-looking men on top of the list. That said, that attempt at rationalizing the situation didn’t stop Malik from glancing wrongly at Altair before following his brother out. He didn’t like the idea of those two talking, of Kadar making doe eyes at Altair who maybe was thinking about how easy it might have been to take advantage of it, just because Kadar looked like a disgustingly lovable puppy, ready to please the handsome and more mature adult just because he liked it. It was the second time that Malik saw him mess around with his brother and it was one too many. The Al-Sayf brothers left the shop, Kadar tasting the cumin of the falafel in his mouth, while in Malik’s there was just the iron-y taste of general aversion. But he knew it was going to disappear shortly.

Kadar and Malik stayed in Manhattan and took a stroll around the area, opting finally to go to the Time Warner Centre, so they could have fun walking inside every shop without buying anything. In the span of one hour, Malik had already forgotten the _Altair_ topic and put aside every intention of scolding Kadar because of his noticeable feeling he seemed to have with his colleague. He shouldn’t worry about such trivial things. What he actually did worry about, instead, was getting an update on what his brother was doing, especially work-wise. Kadar had received a couple work offers from private businesses, one of which a firm, for work on their online platforms. It sounded like good news to him, also because, from what he knew, Kadar’s income had been this close to zero, lately. He also said he was happy about it himself, even if sometimes it seemed like nothing really could satisfy him. They had already confirmed his fee and booked an appointment for the next week. All in all, it seemed like a nicely wrapped little job; that said, Malik still kept on asking himself if Kadar really wanted to be a web designer, if – on the contrary – he was just lacking motivation, or if there was something completely different underneath instead. Kadar was good at what he did, but he also had some pretty bad faults: he was lazy and procrastinated a lot, and spoke frequently out of turn, along with a constant antagonizing of any authority and a frankly irritating know-it-all attitude. All of these are fantastic character traits to hook up in a gay bar on a Friday night, but definitely more problematic if the point is finding a steady job and pay for one’s food. Either way, Malik would never stop worrying about him. It was instinct, that often turned into need, and then into nuisance (for Kadar, of course). Malik knew he could be suffocating when he put his mind to it. Around six thirty in the afternoon, they were hungry and ready to eat, so they left the Time Warner in order to eat somewhere more informal, in the Theater district, and then they would move on to the cinema. They chose a good Mexican with prices slightly above average, but whose food was well-worth it. Malik had tasted various foods from various places, and he liked pretty much all of them, with their differences; the only food he couldn’t really stomach was American, but he was well-aware that it was also a question of ideology rather than taste only.  
– Malik. –  
Kadar broke the silence that had fallen between them since, more or less, the moment their nachos appetizers had arrived at their table, putting words in the background. Malik raised his head and finished chewing the triangle of corn flour that he had generously drowned in Tex-Mex sauce. Without hurry, he cleaned his fingertips with his napkin and drank half a glass of water.  
– Tell me. –  
He suspended the act of feeding. The fact that Kadar had called him by name out of nowhere and without any apparent reason was worrying him. Either he was about to talk shit or confess something that would make his brain explode. He was hoping for an unexpected third option.  
– Can you explain me what are your intentions already? –  
Kadar asked, still smiling, which didn’t help with Malik’s analysis of the situation. Was he being ironic? Was he just fooling around? Or was he being serious? But mostly, what the hell he was talking about anyway? Malik scowled, the typical expression of someone who’s not following the conversation, or who hears someone else speaking Danish for the first time – well, not counting the Danes. He leaned against the seat, and he replied with his face warped with uncertainty. Kadar giggled, as if he had already foreseen each single inch of his disoriented reaction. He swallowed his nachos, dirtied with guacamole and cheese sauce mixed together, and then with his finger he pointed at the base of his neck and then bent his lips as much as he could upwards, his index still pointing at Malik. The cook still didn’t understand. Did he get dirty? Did some sauce end up on him? But what did that have to do with the sibylline question that Kadar asked him before? Imitating Kadar’s gestures, he placed his fingers in the place his brother had pointed at before, at the left side of his lower neck, putting some effort into bending his neck so he could meet with his eyes that hidden area on his collarbone.  
– What? –  
He asked, having run out of the necessary imagination to understand what Kadar was aiming at. The younger man’s smile turned into a laugh, and he cleaned his mouth with his napkin.  
– Who’s covering you in bruises? –  
Asked Kadar raising up one eyebrow and crossing his arms on the table, interested in the answer like a dog might with a bone. Malik understood at once, and without holding back a smile he raised his eyes to the sky, sighing because of his brother’s subtle idiocy.  
– Is it really that obvious? –  
Malik asked, winking. He reached out to grab another nacho, thinking back about the man who, two nights ago, had branded that bruise on him like you brand cattle. It wasn’t his fault if it was really hot inside the restaurant, if Mexican food was spicy and if because of that he had to take off his sweater and remained in his soft shirt, which had a bit of a v-neck. And it wasn’t his fault if that purple-ish hickey was peeking from his clothes. Kadar knew that he didn’t need to answer to that rhetorical question, so he shook his head and kept on eating as well.  
– Do I have to deduce that you’re back to your old golden times? –  
The waiter moved in between them and put on the table’s center the two beers they had ordered, Corona and Bohemia, so that they’d stay coherent with the Central America-themed dinner. They thanked the man and the moment the guy took a step back, Malik started pouring the Bohemia, his own. He was thinking of how he should reply to his brother, because he had understood his intentions now.  
– I’m single and I can have a bit of fun. That’s all. –  
He knew it was a superficial answer, but it seemed convincing enough. Kadar waited for Malik to finish pouring to steal his glass and take a sip. Malik didn’t stop him, allowed him to, and waited, patiently. When he was back in the glass’s possession again, it was his time to drink and Kadar started filling his ears with words.  
– Mh, that’s fair. –  
He commented, but with the tone of someone who has barely started.  
– As long as it’s not compensating for something else. –  
Kadar slipped a handful of nachos into his mouth, knowing he had just thrown a provocation at his brother, but also knowing his brother was perfectly capable of handling it. They were balanced brothers, they could fit well as pieces in Tetris do. Malik looked at him, knowing that there was no easy way to get off that curve if not by accelerating. He placed the beer bottle on the table and shrugged.  
– Stay calm. I’m not exaggerating and I’m not hiding any kind of problem I have to put a balm on with sex. –  
Malik thought it would be enough, but Kadar didn’t.  
– How many? –  
Asked the younger man, as if Malik’s reply had mattered none. The cook, who didn’t need the subject to be specified, focused on his memories for a moment, calculating quickly how many nightly hook-ups he had had recently so he could give Kadar the most accurate esteem possible.  
– Two, at most three each week. –  
He said lightly, as if he was talking about the grocery list. Kadar took it less lightly.  
– That’s a bit high of an average. –  
Malik moved his stare to the rest of the room and shook his head distractedly, thinking of how he could elaborate his thoughts and quickly leave that specific topic; not because it was a problem, but because there was nothing to discuss. He liked what he did and what he gained through it, he was in total control and therefore he felt free to fall into the temptation every time he felt the need; like a teenager with a piranha in place of his metabolism and who can stuff himself with chocolate without gaining weight. Malik moved his back from the chair and leaned towards Kadar.  
– Really, chill. –  
He said sincerely, without the shadow of a lie.  
– Honestly, I’ve never been better. Holly was poison and I’m detoxing now. –  
Malik took Kadar’s Corona and poured it into his glass.  
– It’s what I need now. I pick the guys carefully and we have fun without a problem. –  
The beer’s foam stopped just below the edge of the glass and Malik put the glass to his lips to taste a bit, like his brother had done before with his Bohemia.  
– It’s going great, believe me. –  
He concluded, and then he dunked his lips into the foamy amber and left Kadar free to reply. His brother was looking at him engrossed but with, on his face, the light of solace: Malik had convinced him. Malik hadn’t lied at all in what he said, but he knew how hard it was to express oneself when it came to some of his habits and desires, which a lot of superficial people might have labeled as vices. He had appetites inside his emotive spectrum that he needed to satisfy and could only obtain in certain conditions and through specific practices. For that reason, he used men to obtain a range of gaining that he couldn’t obtain with women; and, of course, the other way around was valid, too. Simply, it was a moment in which he wanted to be under someone else and be beaten like egg whites, and in which he didn’t need to unload but to welcome and receive other people’s unloading. The fact that he was perfectly able to both dominate and be dominated left him total freedom on the topic. People with no experience or Sunday school preachers would have called him depraved, but for him it was poetry bending to fluids’ prose. And shame, luckily, was never his companion in life. He knew that she was the daughter of fear, and it was enough for him to push her away.  
To shame, he rather preferred discretion.  
Kadar, now assuaged, went back to polishing off the nachos, the _asada_ meat and the beans that arrived a moment later; the Al-Sayf brothers filled their stomachs talking shop about things that were untainted by worry. An hour and a half slipped away like the Mexican beers in their esophagi and at the end they stood up so they wouldn’t be late for the evening showing of the movie. This time, it was an animated Japanese movie that they _absolutely_ had to see, or so Kadar had ordered. Malik paid for both, causing the younger man’s ire – he protested firmly, trying to put cash back in his pockets, but it was to no avail. Malik had decided like this and so it was going to be. He tried to make his brother reason, bringing to the table faultless arguments such as the fact that he had a steady job and a great paycheck along which a lot of saved up money, and so offering his little brother an evening made of a movie and dinner was not only a pleasure but also not a problem. At this point, Kadar just had to think about settling in and reach full economic independence. After a lot of grumbling and accusations of being paternalistic, Kadar gave up, but reluctantly. He dragged his feet and walked with his head down for the first five minutes after they left the restaurant. But before they got to the cinema he had already forgotten it and he had brought his hands out of his pockets and relaxed his cheeks, full with forgotten whims. They bought their tickets and waited just a few minutes before getting into the theater. Walking through the hallways, Kadar was spellbound by some gummy fruit-flavored candies and other licorice, and so he filled a small bag with an embarrassing quantity. He paid for those. Malik didn’t insist; he knew he would have come off as haughty if he had, someone who caresses their own ego to feel superior with the excuse of making other people’s problems lighter. They sat and the commercials started. It was hot even inside there.  
– That said… –  
Malik started, deciding to make clear a thought that had been trailing him since Kadar had given him the third degree, before, concerning his sexual life. Kadar looked at him, chewing a couple of gummy bears.  
– _You_ , instead? No… sentimental news? –  
He leaned with his elbow on the armrest and then put his chin on his open palm, leaning towards Kadar and staring at the paper bag that smelled of glycemic overdose and colorant. Kadar shook his head, bored, as if he had nothing to say.  
– Nah, an absolute zero. –  
To Malik it sounded too quick, and therefore, it smelled.  
– Wasn’t that guy… Kevin-something? The one from the party? –  
Malik went back in time with his memories, but he couldn’t be more precise. Kadar’s flings and his not-so-stable partners were marching at a way too speedy pace for him to keep up.  
– Please, I’ve already let him be. –  
Kadar rolled his eyes with a grimace, horrified at the memory.  
– Mh. –  
Malik commented, neutrally. Kadar never was the kind of person who needed a pat on the back or who was especially destroyed by being unlucky in _love_ – because when it came to occasional sex, he was very lucky; also a merit of his beautiful, ephebic lovely face and of how easily he made friends with people. Malik put his hand inside the small bag and grabbed a piece of licorice, which he started nibbling at the sides. On the screen, the first trailer started: a sci-fi that reminded him of colors and lights of Luc Besson’s movies.  
– Even if, truthfully, I did tell you already that there was an interesting guy… –  
Kadar went back on the running track, lowering his voice now that more people were inside the room and the dolby surround’s basses were audible. Malik leaned more in his direction.  
– Who? –  
He asked, taken by surprise. It was impossible that he could have forgotten such an important information, or at least he wouldn’t have if Kadar had discussed it in serious terms with him. Malik turned more on his side, so he could look at him and not just listen. His eyebrows moving so close towards each other suggested that he missed a piece of the puzzle and he needed a hand. Kadar smiled like a kid who’s just scored on penalties and stuffed another sweet into his mouth. Malik thought he was having too much fun, and there was something fishy underneath. Maybe Kadar was just having fun at his expenses.  
– So, you have any news for me about Altair? –  
Kadar asked, whispering inside his brother’s ear. Malik couldn’t believe it: he had managed so well, before dinner, to forget any thought related to him and now that the name was whispered in his ear it brought back up all the nachos with annexed sauces. Without even filtering his reactions through his thoughts, he moved back at once towards his seat, letting his face turn into a disappointed, hostile expression.  
He tore another piece of licorice with his teeth and looked at Kadar again.  
– Can it, you idiot. –  
He insulted him gently, because he understood that he was joking, or at least he really hoped so. Kadar laughed heartily, immediately covering his mouth as he worried about disturbing the rest of the audience. The lights were turned off by now and the trailers almost over. The movie was going to start any moment now; if he wanted information, he had to grasp them quickly.  
– Come on, answer me! Did you ask him? Do you know anything? –  
Kadar urged him, whispering, almost plastering his face all over his brother’s, and Malik leaned back in reply. Kadar was looking at him with those huge eyes that he turned on people when he wanted something _really_ bad. On the spot, Malik found revolting the insistence with which Kadar was showing interest in Altair, and inside him, he knew that it wasn’t a hypothesis that might end up turning into reality, even just because he would never allow it. But then he convinced himself to go back to reality, repeating to himself that Kadar was just dicking around as usual, and he was having too much fun being a nuisance and making him nervous. Fully aware of these considerations, Malik tried to soften the scowl that had come on his face, and most of all, he tried to not have his evening ruined thanks to an idiot who wasn’t even present. He just had to be less sensitive about the topic and pull out some of his usual, sharp sarcasm. So he smiled at the large, blue eyes looking at him as they begged, cleared his throat and bit off another piece of licorice.  
– Actually, I do have an update. –  
He whispered like sea breeze during a summer dawn. Kadar jumped on his seat, holding back with effort the enthusiasm and the gummy bears inside his mouth.  
– What what what? –  
He asked, wound-up, or maybe even delirious. The end of the last trailer was coming up and the last chattering was dying down. He wanted to know everything in the condensed density of a few seconds. Malik smiled as he bit down on his lower lip and shaking his head. Kadar really could be an idiot, but an adorable one. Malik bent down, leaning towards his brother again, and almost placing his lips on his ear, aiming at slipping that information as deep as possible inside his brain. Not because he wanted Kadar to think he could have a chance with Altair – that wasn’t even a faraway chance – but to get him lost in imagining something that would never happen. With a voice as thin as a spider’s web but letters full with an oboe’s sound, Malik let slip into his brother’s auditory canal that inspiration he had dreamed of so much, and left him alone to deal with it: he spoke to him in Arabic, their mother tongue, the one they often used when they were alone but most of all when they met with their parents. Malik thought that in that moment, their most intimate code of communication, and most secret, could add one more overindulgence to the situation, which was already fun on his own. A touch of mystery and ambiguity that Kadar wouldn’t have scrolled off his shoulders for the entire night. He parted his lips, let air run through them without even getting stained with the blame of lying, because he was actually confessing the truth. The screen turned black, and with that, also the breathing in the room. Swallowed in the dark and in the total silence that precedes a movie’s opening titles, Malik, secretly pleased, slipped the bug inside the ear of his younger brother:  
– _He’s bi_. –


	9. Chapter 9

_December 6th, 2016.  
New York City_

Lucy’s pencil, the side with the eraser, was drumming against her paperwork. She was thinking. Michael, from the other side of the desk, was holding his chin in his palm and had an elbow on his knee. He always respected his colleague’s times; he never was a man with a penchant for hurrying up.  
– I’d say at least three. –  
The blonde woman stated, her opaque irises moving in a straight line, meeting Michael’s, which instead were of a lively, almost electric azure. The man’s hand moved over his mouth. He also was thinking.  
– Two in the kitchen and one at the counter? –  
He asked, looking for confirmation. Lucy nodded, the pencil’s eraser placed under her lips.  
– Two in the kitchen that are really professionals. –  
She replied, interrupting herself.  
– Just so we understand each other, not like Desmond. –  
She added, completing the thought. Not that she was insulting him or anything, but the young Miles had skills and competence when it came to bartending, not to cooking. He has adapted well out of necessity, but it still wasn’t his field, and most likely not even what he aspired to. Michael moved his head, agreeing, but he said nothing because he knew she wasn’t done yet.  
– So I could move Desmond to waiting tables. –  
She grabbed an old piece of paper, putting it in the middle of the desk, in between her and Michael. She started writing and drawing circles, identifying her employees.  
– I’d keep Malik and Rebecca as head chefs, and then I’d give them two real assistants, which would help them unloading a lot during their shifts. –  
– Sure. –  
Michael approved, taking his small and round glasses from his jacket, and then put them on, placing them on his nose’s tip.  
– So you would move… –  
– I’d move Desmond, Altair and Shaun to waiting tables, and then they’d share shifts at the check-out with the new hire, or maybe they could come in the office with me. –  
Michael, at this point, disagreed for the first time.  
– I’m in the office with you. –  
The man defended his role bravely, but Lucy had already raised a hand to stop him.  
– We already talked about it. When you have chemotherapy sessions, and for the necessary days following them, you have to rest at home. You only should come here if you must. –  
Her tone was inflexible, like the line of eyeliner drawn over her eyelids, but you could see in her eyes still the carefulness that had brought her to that choice.  
– I can do it, don’t worry. I still feel strong enough to help you here. –  
Michael insisted, not wanting to feel like he wasn’t holding up his weight.  
– I know. But if you’re too tired, or when I think you should rest, someone else will be here helping me out. –  
Lucy smiled, without budging.  
– Okay, okay, but trust me. –  
Michael said, almost pleading. He couldn’t stand being seen as some kind of relict.  
– Always. –  
Lucy reassured him.  
After a moment of silence, the two of them moved their eyes back to the sheet, running over the few but clear details written down on it. Regardless, they couldn’t go on like this. They needed more personnel.  
– How are we doing with the rent? –  
Michael asked, knowing the answer already. Lucy leaned back against her armchair, leaving the pencil on the sheet, sighing the way you do when your lunch break has just started.  
– Yes, it’s sky high. But our earnings are three times that high. –  
Michael smiled, satisfied.  
– So we’re doing great, aren’t we? –  
– So it seems. –  
Lucy said, the light going out of her eyes for a moment.  
– What’s that? You didn’t think it really would work out? –  
Lucy shook her head, her focus coming back to her.  
– No, just… maybe not so well. –  
Michael smiled again, taking off his reading glasses. He never doubted that doing business with Lucy Stillman would be… great business, exactly. She was young, smart, able, ambitious. A partner that would have scared off a lot of people.  
– But… –  
Lucy spoke up again, swinging on her armchair, her hands joining on her lap.  
– That’s exactly why we have to invest well for our next moves. –  
– You said you had a few ideas. –  
Michael anticipated her. The light came back to Lucy’s eyes.  
– Other than hiring more people… I also thought about Brenda, next door. –  
Michael tried to remember that woman’s face.  
– What, the shoe shop? –  
Lucy nodded, feeling her enthusiasm rising.  
– Yes, a few days ago she told me that she couldn’t really get even these last few months. She’s thinking of a sale after the holidays and closing down. –  
– Oh. –  
The sorrow on Michael’s face was sincere.  
– We could spread. –  
Lucy went on, ignoring empathy. That kind of struck Michael, as he kept on smiling while he enjoyed the bubbles in the sparkly water that was his colleague.  
– What’s the plan? –  
Lucy was waiting for the question; she looked like a teenager, ready to discuss her Power Point: she straightened up, fixed a blonde lock that had escaped her bun behind her ear, stood up from the armchair and started walking through the office. She was adrenaline incarnated.  
– I would like to make the place larger. Not just in space, but also concerning what we offer. –  
Michael followed her with eyes and ears, involved and paying attention.  
– I was thinking of a cocktail bar. –  
She stopped, because it was important to feel her partner’s reactions. She left her hands joined on her waist, still, on her cotton cream blouse. Michael took his time but, if he knew Lucy well enough, he thought he knew where she was aiming at.  
– Dinner and after-dinner, then? –  
Lucy nodded, smiling at Michael with her lips covered in a nude-effect lipstick. She wanted to include him in that vision, make sure he also saw the plan’s potential, which to her was as obvious as the ugliness of wearing socks under sandals.  
– Exactly. It’d be separated places of course, but with a connection on the inside. I also would like the cocktail bar to look… in theme with the food we serve. Oriental. –  
– Nice. –  
Michael said, starting to picture the scenario. Lucy, whose engine had carbureted by now, kept on walking.  
– Ottoman-style interior design, with a lot of columns; classic Middle-Eastern design: Arabian ochre, red and gold; tables, of course, but with Persian carpets and plenty of pillows; a fusion menu, maybe a hookah as well. –  
Lucy’s eyes were full of those pictures and she sighed, like a teenager having her first crush.  
– What do you say? –  
She finally asked, stopping again as her legs’ muscles were straining thanks to all that emotion.  
– I’m saying, _wow_. –  
Michael said, his small fist slamming on the desk.  
– Very thematic, original, ambitious. I like it. –  
He added, supporting his colleague, who let the critical thought join the field, if anything to not look like some ill-equipped person who has just started out.  
– It’s a lot of work, I know. And not just money-wise. –  
She put her hands forward, clearing her throat, and her feet started moving again.  
– I’m fairly sure that Brenda would accept to sell me her shop. In order to find someone to rent it that she can trust it might take months and I imagine she’ll immediately need cash after closing. I might even barter a bit on the price. –  
She looked for visual confirmation on Michael’s face, and that arrived quickly. So she felt allowed to go on.  
– Then we’ll need further financing, but we can get there. The earnings are improving, the name is around and it’s good, and the Facebook page is growing every day. –  
Lucy lowered her eyes, thinking.  
– How many websites featured us by now? –  
She asked, her eyes narrow and fox-like. Michael took his smartphone and started scrolling with his thumb on the touchscreen.  
– Three specialized websites, five food blogs. A few good pictures on Instagram, also from a couple of good-rated influencers. –  
– Right. –  
Lucy nodded – she remembered the exact same data. She only asked for confirmation.  
– We were thinking of opening online ordering, didn’t we? That’d be a good push, too. –  
– Yes. We should study the costs, eventual partners, areas we can cover. –  
Michael answered promptly, succumbing to her enthusiasm.  
– We’ll have all the data within the week. –  
The girl replied with martial certainty. From the tone, it was obvious that she meant, _I will handle it_.  
– Desmond would be a great asset. –  
Added Lucy, without giving a clear context first.  
– Desmond? –  
Michael repeated doubtfully, fearing he missed something.  
– For the cocktail bar. –  
Lucy smiled with ease.  
– He’s perfect for it, and he’s also good. And most of all, he works here already. –  
– Oh, right, sure thing. –  
Michael answered, getting what she had meant. He trusted Lucy’s judgment; he didn’t remember all the details of the boys’ previous occupations, but he knew they were hard working and good at their job, each of them in their own way, and that was enough for him. Lucy smiled, her heels tapping on the ground while she noted something on her smartphone. She had been working on these possible improvements for weeks, thinking, researching, confronting herself with some of her former uni classmates, reading until late at night. She bit on her lower lip and moved the fringe out of her hair, her eyes going back to Michael as she smiled, so that the two of them could then look in the same direction and the same future. That year, she wasn’t going to ask Santa for anything else: she wasn’t fine with her business just existing; she wanted it to shine.

 

Altair blew a small cloud of smoke from his lips, and it got lost in the frozen air. He remained with his cigarette held low in between his fingers. He didn’t feel like finishing it.  
– So, do I know her or not? –  
Altair asked, with light impatience.  
– No, I’m telling you again. –  
Desmond lied, convinced that he wasn’t raising any suspicion. Poor deluded man. The two cousins were out in the open air, in the alley behind the kitchen. Even the small wall they were sitting on was frozen to the point one’s ass would get stuck to it as if there was double-sided tape all over the surface.  
– Hm. –  
Said Altair, not buying that too much but not wanting to give Desmond an advantage. Better if he thought he convinced Altair. The older man was keeping his back low and his elbows on his knees; he still had the lighted cigarette in his fingers, but he didn’t feel like tobacco anymore, and Desmond didn’t smoke.  
– Well, I don’t really know what to tell you… –  
Altair went on – he wasn’t really great at counseling himself and he was even worse at dishing advice to others. Desmond was aware, but he was fine with it regardless.  
– Like, if you told me that you already have known her for a while, maybe it could be easier to ask her out. –  
Added Altair, not feeling like he was helping that much. And he, in fact, was not.  
– Yeah, you told me already. –  
Mumbled Desmond, dreaming about someone presenting him a new and foolproof way of hitting on a girl that wouldn’t include the sentence _talk to her and ask her out_. He knew he had to gather courage, but he preferred to hide behind the excuse of strategy. It was frustrating, because he wasn’t that shy about most other things. Desmond ran a hand over his face and checked the clock. They had a few minutes left before going back in.  
– Listen, why don’t you ask Ezio? –  
Altair said, short on ideas. Desmond looked at him with a face in between shocked and resentful, and Altair tried to justify himself.  
– He’s a dick, fine, but it’s true that he’s good with women. –  
Well, saying that Ezio Auditore was _good with women_ was a sound understatement.  
– I think he could give you some good advice. –  
He gestured as if trying to convince Desmond to take the advice.  
– Yeah, sure, as if I don’t know how it’d end. –  
Answered Desmond shaking his head, with the intention of killing that entire discussion there. Altair had to agree.  
– Yeah, okay, maybe he’d be a tad invasive, but- –  
– _A tad invasive_? –  
Desmond repeated, as if he wanted Altair to think back on what he just said. No love advice that involved Ezio could include things such as _secrecy_ and _discretion_. The name of the girl, how old she was, her zodiac sign, her measures; he would want to know everything. Lucy Stillman, 25 years old, he had known her for seven, Virgo, born on September 9th; he didn’t know her measures, but he himself would have described them with the sole adjective _perfect_ rather than use three numbers. Regardless, no one knew of his thorny sentimental condition, to which there was the recent added detail of Lucy being his boss. He couldn’t end up in a more complicated situation: undoing the Gordian knot would have been probably easier. For this reason, and for other issues he had, Desmond wasn’t going to ever let any clue that might suggest how gone he was on Lucy. Altair shrugged, as if to apologize. Not that he was defending his cousin’s idiocy and the excesses with which he behaved in all of his activities and human relationships, but he also knew his best features and his strongest assets.  
– Come on, you can try. It’s always Ezio, after all. –  
Desmond, with his lips ready to pronounce _yeah, that’s the point_ , was stopped just in time, like a benign cancer.  
– Hey, after Maria he really helped me out. –  
Altair turned serious and he lowered his eyes without noticing. He was serious because he meant what he said; and he was serious because pronouncing _that_ name was like bearing with gritted teeth a knee in your side. Every time.  
– Honestly. –  
Altair thought he might put a nice adverb in his statement to make it stronger, while fragments of ash started to fall on the ground from his cigarette, dry and perpendicular, like many little professional divers. A nice breeze started and maybe it wanted to clear both their heads. Desmond’s muscular tension went away a bit, even if he still didn’t want to agree with Altair but he wasn’t going to get stuck on ignoring sincerely given advice. He did trust Altair, but it didn’t save Ezio from being an idiot. A _good_ idiot, sure, but still one.  
– I’ll think about it. –  
The younger man replied, sure enough that they could leave it there. Desmond raised his eyes to the sky, not particularly searching for anything. He took a deep breath, but that didn’t help kicking away the unsettling feeling that stuck to him when he thought about Lucy. Was it an offense to be in love with Altair’s best friend? Did he somehow slight him when Altair introduced them, that day seven years before when they were still teenagers, and from then on, no other girl had looked the same to him again? If he thought about it rationally, he couldn’t think of one reason why his cousin should be angry with him. Altair and Lucy were friends; close friends, sure, but still, _friends_. He knew he wasn’t overstepping any limits or that he wasn’t stealing anything from him, but sometimes he reasoned with his stomach and not his head, and ended up feeling guilty for something he couldn’t even pinpoint. Or maybe because it was almost eight years that he hid it from Altair, from Ezio, from many other friends. And, of course, from Lucy. All that absurd knot of stress and guilt exploded inside Desmond in a thought that he immediately felt like he had to spit out, the way you feel when you realize you stuck in your mouth a full piece of garlic along with the forkful of roasted potatoes.  
– And for that matter… –  
The kitchen’s door slammed open with urgency, almost slamming against the bricks in the wall. Desmond jumped, turning to it immediately and forgetting what he wanted to say in the first place. Altair stuck to just turning his face in the same direction, without panicking. Malik left the kitchen with two large trash bags and glanced at the two of them as he headed for the nearby bins.  
– Still on break? –  
The cook asked with a final intonation that seemed to mean, _move your ass back inside_. Then again Malik, along with Rebecca, was the higher in the food chain and he could have calmly ordered them around if he felt like it. Luckily for them, Malik didn’t feel like it and would rather mind his own business. Desmond, just to check, looked at his watch. They still had three minutes left.  
– Not for long, but I can come in if there’s the need. –  
Desmond said, always ready to be busy. Altair said nothing, but it was no news. He would have rather looked at Malik as he threw away their trash. After all, whatever he did or said looked sexy to him. It was starting to be a problem. Malik smiled behind them, because he was actually just kidding around. He had no reason to scold them, and three minutes weren’t going to change anything that was going on inside. It was a calm moment both in the kitchen and outside. The two cousins could take a few more moments to relax. He let the cover of the last trash can fall downward, rubbing his hands a couple times against his apron while he moved closer to his co-workers, curled on themselves like two teenagers who just skipped school. He stopped in front of them, a hand raising to massage his shoulder, and he couldn’t help noticing the cigarette in Altair’s hand, which at this point was smoking itself, without a pair of lips to latch on to. He thought about what he had said a short while ago, regarding the occasions in which he smoked.  
– Nervous? –  
Malik asked with a small smirk that wasn’t neither challenging nor friendly. Something indescribable, that worked on Altair, though, who understood at once what the cook meant, and he had the instinct to curl his lips upward, too. He thought it was cute that he remembered that detail that he had confessed one evening by chance, without even paying close attention to it, and he decided to chalk that up in his favor.  
– No. –  
Altair looked up at Malik and his eyes thinned into two slits as the sun rays hit them.  
– Just nostalgia, this time. –  
He added, while a well-meaning smirk was printing itself on his face. Malik could feel that confession. Even if he had never been a regular smoker, sometimes he did miss tobacco, the light weight in between his fingers, something to bring to his mouth when there was nothing better to inhale around.  
– But Desmond is nervous. –  
Altair kept on, nodding towards his cousin.  
– Hey, no, actually… –  
Desmond said, immediately moving on the defensive. Embarrassment was painting itself in his eyes, and then it ended up on his cheekbones, dyeing them of a rusty red shade. Malik didn’t need anything else; he was sure enough that he had a general idea. He remembered when, a while ago, in the kitchen, Desmond had shared his sentimental woes concerning a girl. He also remembered how in that occasion he hadn’t been well-mannered, brushing off the poor man with a coldness and cynicism that he hadn’t deserved. Fuck his nerves and fuck Holly, who he had allowed to turn him into someone that hostile – or more hostile than usual – to the rest of the world. But now he could win back some points with Desmond, if that was the topic at hand.  
– Is it still about _that_ girl? –  
Malik asked, without any intimidatory intent; like a normal person, pretty much. Desmond hesitated, caught by surprise: he wasn’t expecting that Malik would remember that detail that he had brushed off so rudely weeks ago, and he hadn’t even expected that his desperation had been so obvious that Malik could link the two things so easily. Altair smiled, towards Malik first and then Desmond. Sometimes he had fun roughing up his cousin, but always with tact and cotton gloves. Desmond looked in between the two pivots in between he had found himself stuck, even less at ease. But maybe he could try to take one more piece of advice.  
– Well, yeah, more or less. –  
Desmond admitted laboriously, like a shy guest that would like an extra piece of cake but feels too ashamed to ask for it. Malik sighed, caught by a certain tenderness that Desmond’s clumsiness was making him feel. For a moment, he reminded Malik of Kadar when he was a teenager. The cook went to sit on the wall, next to Altair, and he did that for one specific reason: stealing a smoke from him. Altair followed Malik’s motion with his eyes and when he found him next to himself, he felt the hair on his arms tingle. He silently was thankful for that moment.  
– Women are more complicated when you want to be serious about it. –  
Malik commented, with his back held straight and staring vaguely at the side, not directly, so Desmond wouldn’t be embarrassed that much more. Sometimes that kid looked like a rare Chinese porcelain, that you had to handle with care so that it wouldn’t get chipped.  
– Given that you want to be serious, I mean. –  
He added, as a footnote. Then he bent his back, enough to reach his target and grab with his fingers Altair’s lighted cigarette, that he was leaving to his death in merciless manner in his hand. A shameful waste; he’d have rather joined in the nostalgia. As Altair felt Malik’s fingers brush against his, that hair started to dance on his skin, forcing his cardiac muscle to pump way more strongly so that the blood in the outskirts wouldn’t be left without oxygen. There was nothing erotic whatsoever in that motion, but he didn’t know how, Malik managed to turn sensual every pose, every gesture, every triviality. He had no idea whether it was a gift of nature or a complex system that he had finely tuned for years. Even if Altair, probably, was pulling his own weight by giving carnal shades to meetings and functions that most likely held no other meaning than mere neutral human interaction. Or maybe that was the result of both sides summing up misunderstandings and turned every contact into a puzzle to make sense of, a pleasant lack of understanding, an enigma; rigorously without a solution, but at the same time a useful cue to dream about when alone.  
Malik took the cigarette with two fingers and carefully slipped it out of Altair’s hand without saying a thing. Altair bent his face towards him, without meeting his stare fully, opting for keeping a low profile. He liked the way Malik had taken without asking, but then again he knew he could afford to do it. He appreciated the strong self-assurance that Malik had, just rarely rude, because that was the exact type of confidence he wished was between them. The cook stuck the cigarette in between his lips and inhaled calmly, happy that the toxic combustion was still happening. It wasn’t hard to notice how Altair was trying to mask the attention Malik had caused to rise inside him, and that made it easy to admit that maybe he hadn’t sat next to Altair just to smoke, but also for some other reasons. Maybe he wanted to have a bit of fun, too. Meanwhile Desmond had stayed concentrated, working on an answer that might not make him look like some loser teenager that might need the number of a good speech therapist.  
– That’d be the intention… –  
Said Desmond, in a feeble hamster’s voice. But he hadn’t finished yet.  
– But if I asked her out wouldn’t it be the same as fessing up? –  
He added, caught at once by a knot in his stomach. Malik raised his eyes towards the sky, but without reproach. Maybe that side of Desmond’s, more shy and insecure, might win him points with women, but Malik would have been exasperated by someone so undecided and awkward.  
– And even if it was? –  
The cook asked, rhetorically, shrugging and exhaling a small cloud of smoke, well-directed towards the ground. There was the risk that without a lighter, that’d turn out to be his first and last smoke.  
– The worst thing that can happen is that she says no. –  
He kept on, turning towards Desmond and intercepting the ghost of fear in his eyes. Altair stayed silent, his stare fluttering through the alley. Now that Malik joined them, he was going to let him have his say. Desmond needed another point of view, more neutral than a loving cousin.  
– So you can put a move on her or ask yourself for your entire life what she would have answered if you only asked. –  
The sound of horns and of a few street vendors’ screaming covered the silence. Put it like that, Desmond could see that it was convincing logic. But there were a few things he still couldn’t explained, details he couldn’t add, first and foremost that it’d be embarrassing to keep on working for Lucy if things turned out badly after confessing to her. Desmond felt frustrated: he felt like he was the only rabbit in a kingdom of lions. What did he have that was wrong? Malik, having said his piece, stayed in silence. He wanted to leave Desmond time to reply, even if he seemed more focused on taking the hit. Altair, on his side, was more than happy to enjoy the irony of that picture. If turned over, the situation could apply to him, too: should he just go for it with Malik, or not? Of course his first animalistic instinct was throwing himself in the void without worrying about the parachute. Which was the fault of way too high self-esteem and borderline narcissistic arrogance, which often made him blind to mistakes. Heavy and uncomfortable baggage, that Altair couldn’t fully get rid of in his trips to find company. Even if, at the end, everything had gone over well, before. Before _Maria_.  
– I know… Altair says the same thing. –  
Desmond finally spoke, head hung low, not exactly rejuvenated by that umpteenth call to action. Altair smiled, his shoulders hitting lightly his enfeebled cousin’s. Malik looked elsewhere for a moment, thinking that there wasn’t much time left before they had to go back in, but also thinking that this was his way to apologize to Desmond for his rudeness a few weeks ago, indelicate as much as not justified: he had paid back rudeness with advice. And he hoped it’d be enough. That said, he still wanted to have a bit of fun, which in that moment for Malik meant _let’s bother Altair_ : let’s play it close to ambiguous, let’s test him, let’s provoke him and then take it back: because nothing gave him more satisfaction that seeing that bronze face crack. Malik, so, calculated carefully a way to take two birds with one stone, so he could offer Desmond further help and new suspicions to Altair. He really was starting to enjoy that game made of innuendos that never were unveiled.  
– I’m saying again, women are hard… –  
Malik sighed, leaving that sentence hanging just a few moments.  
– If you weren’t _serious_ , I’d almost suggest you to turn to men. –  
He gave that cutting blow as he looked at the clear sky, fully aware of the risk he was running. The cook kept on looking up, playing with his cigarette, his fingers still greasy from the kitchen.  
– They’re more fun, in the end. –  
Malik bent his head to the side easily, as if he had said he liked eggs better than fish. He looked at Desmond, arching his eyebrows and with a smile that he tried to not infuse with mischievousness. In his eyes, there was the self-assurance of someone who has advantage in his fist.  
– Easier. –  
He shrugged and lifted up the cigarette to kiss it, hoping in a last smoke before he could go. The best thing wasn’t that he could inhale something from that stub that was by now almost dry and dull, but to look at Desmond’s face and Altair’s reaction. Two planets that were light years from each other, if not entire galaxies: the younger man scrunched his eyes, which then turned thin like a nearsighted person’s without glasses, his lips parted enough to hint the presence of rows of white teeth, and his smile was strung like plastic around a new book. He looked like Dorothy Gale just as she was thrown into the land of Oz.  
Malik found it amusing merely looking at him. But what was making him even happier, was that he had managed to weave a great balance in between reality and hinting: he had given something, but little of it, and in terms too generic for anyone to single him out as someone who knows men well, that has experience with men, that has fun with men; pretty much, someone who _does_ men. Actually, since Malik already had hinted to Desmond that someone he knew was into Altair, his comment might be just because of hearsay from someone else. It was believable. Who was going to say otherwise, anyway? He was safe as if inside an iron cask. In between saying that men are easier partners, laying down on a comfortable stereotype, and admitting that he was the first who enjoyed those same men to screw him senseless, there was a fair difference. So, very satisfied of how he had managed to set up his plan, Malik stayed there, not moving, trying to not let himself fall into the temptation of winking or smiling too much.  
Altair, on his side, was offering a different but way more amusing show: a spasm, obvious but gone in a flash, had made him turn his face like in a mirrored curve. Then, maybe, self-control must have stepped in, because he had stopped moving, his face stuck at a three-quarters angle, without actually looking at Malik but playing it vague. Who knew what he was thinking of, what he was picturing, what he was suspecting. The mere idea of giving him food for thought was turning Malik on in his baser instinct, the ones that were also a bit wretched, that he couldn’t stop having sometimes. His innocent consideration, that didn’t admit anything for sure, was throwing him into some kind of power high. His reign was a swamp of ambiguity, that bridge in between yes and no that makes crossing irresistible. He was great at confusing people, manipulating them, bringing them where he wanted, up until he might convince them of something that, most times, was a mere fantasy. There was something slightly creepy and sometimes cruel in that skill of his; succumbing to the temptation of playing with other people’s heads and hearts was a delight – and a crime – such that it almost became an intellectual orgasm. And Altair was the perfect prey: interested but reserved, with that (he admitted it) balanced weight in between pride and coarseness that made Malik feel only like teasing him, putting him back in his place, and maybe encourage him a bit so he’d delude himself into being this close to whatever he thought, and then rip him apart like an old drawing notebook and remind him how much the world could be a revolting place.  
– What do you mean? –  
Desmond asked, looking even more confused: it was obvious he didn’t know whether he should laugh at a joke or if he should thank him seriously for the advice. But the question was a good thing, both because it broke the thorny silence that had fallen in between them, and because Malik obtained a perfect closure, so that he could run away and leave on that wall the prod with which he had poked a bit both guys. The cook moved the filter of the cigarette from his lips and stared at Desmond’s face, slightly cut off by Altair’s profile. He looked at him with a sprinkle of skepticism, demeaning slightly the inclination of his eyebrows; he had to make him understand that it was a stupid question. He pressed his lips together, only letting a small hole in between, from which he exhaled his last cloud of smoke which he now sent upward, the same way his chin was leaning so he could look at both colleagues from his pedestal. With a few wisps of gray smoke still hovering around his face, he replied without actually answering.  
– Exactly what I said. –  
He used his voice like an axe to cut the both of them in two, playing his best card: being as elusive as the wind and as ambiguous as symbolism. And to top it all off, he had added the sour-sweet sauce of mischievousness. Malik lowered his hand and put the cigarette back where he took it from, as in, between Altair’s index and middle fingers. While he brushed against his fingers, Malik noticed that Altair’s phalanxes moved a bit so he could pass through, with a hesitation that only meant to hide how much he wanted that contact to last a bit more. Altair bit on the inside of his lower lip, doing it as a safety valve, while he thought about how much he’d have liked to grab Malik’s hand and bring it to his mouth, or maybe directly inside his trousers. It was brief but intense.  
Malik’s fingers slipped away and Altair found himself with a cigarette in his hand and his hormones out of control. That was also thanks to Malik’s equivocal words, that Altair was interpreting as a direct invite to put a move: there was a concrete chance that Malik meant that he actually did like to be with men, indeed. And then, what man better than him could ever put a move on him?  
Thoughts and images burst into his head like stroboscopic lights and he realized soon that what he was feeling was frustration: he wanted to come closer, and not to lose time weighing whether the small bite Malik had thrown him was edible or poisonous. He only wanted to devour it. Malik stood up and patted his trousers to get rid of the dust on the small wall. He cleared his throat and looked at the time on his cellphone. It was time to shut down that show.  
– Get back in. –  
Malik said, nodding to the both of them and then to the kitchen door. Both Desmond and Altair looked at him from below without saying a thing, but each for different reasons. Malik went first, going back in without inviting them twice while the two cousins stayed like that, unmoving and silent for a few seconds, before they could put together again the force of will to work. Desmond felt like he was fighting contrasting feelings: from one side, the need for boldness that he lacked, on the other, that self-sabotaging little voice whispering that it wasn’t really worth it, nor that he should go for it. Because at the end of it, _he_ wasn’t worth it. Desmond huffed, disheartened, as if he was dealing with a mechanical physics problem, then massaged the back of his neck because that was where the negative thoughts grouped, and then he stood up, tired to sit down and not finding a solution to his problems. Sure that Altair would follow, he grabbed the handle and pulled so he could get back in the kitchen, and then he realized he was alone: Altair was still sitting on the wall, staring ahead, something dense in his eyes that Desmond could never catch. He kept his elbows on his knees, and now the hand with the cigarette was held high, near his face, while he held the lighter in his other hand.  
– Aren’t you coming? –  
Asked Desmond, not understanding what his cousin was waiting for. Altair pressed his thumb on the coarse little wheel of the lighter, the flame coming to life. He pulled it close to the tobacco of the near-stub, lighting it up again. The cigarette breathed again, releasing that tasty smoke that kills people.  
– A minute. –  
He whispered; he looked dark in his face, but he was only just focused. Desmond didn’t insist and left him alone, closing the door behind him. It was unfair that one of them would take an extra minute off without a reason, but Altair couldn’t care less. What he cared about was closing his eyes and place his lips right where Malik had left his: on that cigarette that was worth nothing until a moment before, except for the feeble memory of being addicted. Now, instead, as he slipped the filter inside his lips trying to catch the hint of the taste of a still unknown mouth, the cigarette had turned into the metaphor for a potential; or maybe a dream – like a romantic would have preferred. He knew it was silly to think, and that it wasn’t anything more than a game played in between teenagers at their first experience, but that cigarette was the seal of an indirect kiss in between his lips and Malik’s. No matter how many smokes it had left in it, he’d have consumed them all, and with them also the memory of those smart fingers that had touched him, bewitching him every time as if it was he first. Altair remained sitting there for a long time, apparently innocuous, like a lioness hidden in the dry vegetation waiting for her prey; and in between the sighs of the smoke and his imagination’s, as he looked at the azure of the pale and sad December sky, he let himself be cradled by the idea of how he was ready to kiss those Syrian lips like nothing else in the world.


	10. Chapter 10

_December 15th, 2016.  
New York City_

Christmas was in the air.  
It wasn’t just about the decorations inside the main room of the shop or the fake spruce in the corner, stuffed with lights and ornaments; it was also the shopping bags of the clients, hiding the first presents for the most abused holiday of the year. The smartest ones, who do away with it earlier. Some kept the gifts in between their legs, others on their laps or the empty chair nearby; others abandoned those bags on the ground, just so they could better block the passage during rush hour. It was almost seven PM and people were hungry. Michael hadn’t managed to leave the check-out for a moment; Shaun and Altair were serving clients at the counter non-stop, and the line of people waiting for their turn was on the outside, on the sidewalk in front of the shop. Yeah, Lucy had done well in starting with the _Operation Looking For Personnel_. For the last week people had gone in and out of her office: and someone, in between them, would have become a new co-worker soon.  
– Altair. –   
The addressed man was wrapping an extra-large kebab when he heard someone calling. He looked around, immediately noticing Desmond walking towards him. His cousin almost ran into him for how much he was hurrying, immediately attaching his lips to Altair’s ear so that the words wouldn’t be covered by the chattering in the room.  
– I’ll cover for you a moment. Lucy asked for you. –   
Altair then looked for his boss in the middle of all that mess, recognizing the blonde woman at the corner between hallway and bathroom. She was holding a file in her hands, crossing something with a pen. Meanwhile, the hungry girl waiting for her kebab stared Altair with a vexed look in her eyes while the smell of meat and onions was filling her nostrils and feeding her fantasies. Exhausted, she cleared her throat to bring back to attention the distracted man at the counter. Desmond also offered his contribution, hitting the cousin’s shoulder so that he’d get a move on. Altair snapped to attention, leaning over to hand the kebab to his client and tried to get himself forgiven with a smile, but the girl was too busy tearing her dinner from his hands to notice his pretty face. She disappeared like chips during happy hour, Desmond took Altair’s place and Altair walked through the counter, jumping from the small step at the end. Before moving near Lucy, he managed to glance at the room: it really was full to the brink, like every night at this point.  
– Hey. –   
Altair said, elbowing her on the shoulder even if his strength was badly calibrated; that day she had come to work without tying her hair, not respecting her usual routine.  
– Ouch. –   
Answered Lucy without moving her eyes from the piece of paper. She was crossing the last name on a long list. Then she sighed, raising her face from the file and shaking her head, moving a few strands of blonde hair from her eyebrows. She barely managed to put her eyes in a straight line against Altair’s when he spoke before she could.  
– How is it going? –   
He asked with sincere interest. Lucy’s cheeks puffed and she huffed air out; she seemed tired.  
– Good. In the last few days, there were some who came who could work out. –   
Altair smiled, the best silent answer.  
– Goodbye then. –   
A voice behind their shoulders broke the familiarity of that moment and surprised Altair, who moved away to let a man around thirty pass, with a short dark beard and long hair under his shoulders, not really combed. He kept a backpack on one shoulder and keys in his hands. That said, the guy had been talking to Lucy, not to him.  
– Goodbye, James. And thank you. –   
Answered Lucy politely, like an answering machine. The man nodded, walked past the both of them and started making his way in between the clients to reach the exit. Then Altair could move back to his friend.  
– Is that the guy you just crossed? –   
He asked, neutrally. Lucy shrugged and stretched her arms, holding on to the sheets with her fingertips. She stared at the crowd, satisfied like an empress on her throne.  
– Let’s say you won’t meet him again. –   
– But he looked like Jesus Christ. –   
Altair commented, seriously ironic, leaning against the wall with a hand.  
– Are you saying I should hire him to promote peace in between religions? –   
Asked Lucy, faking seriousness as well, and starting one of their nonsense driven conversations, the kind that leads nowhere except a moment of respite in between friends.  
– You should push on the multiethnic angle some more. –   
Altair kept on, almost with passion.  
– My personnel is already multiethnic. –   
Lucy said, with a bit of pride.  
– One Arab, one Englishman, three Americans. You can do better. –  
Altair put a drop of provocation in that suggestion, but he didn’t know that a cold bucket of water of reprimand was expecting him.  
– _Two_ Arabs. –   
Lucy specified, her stare and tone becoming sharper.  
– Michael is not an Arab. –   
He answered with certainty, puffing up his chest, as if he had to put someone back in line.  
– But _you_ are. –   
Lucy threw the dagger at him, before starting to doodle useless circles on her piece of paper. Altair felt the blow coming and smelled the danger.  
– I’m American, not Arab. –   
His stare was inflexible, and his voice as well.  
– Sure, _Altair Ibn-La'Ahad_. –   
Lucy pronounced the name perfectly, just so he’d feel bad about it. Altair moved his hand from the wall and huffed, irritated, as foreseen.  
– Your real- –  
– Do you know you can be both things, don’t you? –   
She interrupted him, looking up at him from her piece of paper, with that firm and confident patience that wants to turn into hope. Altair didn’t feel like disappointing her and kept his mouth shut.  
– For that matter, Syrian is more correct than Arab. –  
She kept on, turning a side to him, too. He seemed confused.  
– Why, isn’t that the same? –   
Lucy raised her eyes to the sky, trying to not smile.  
– Christ’s sake, do you know in how many countries people speak Arabic? –   
She said, sighing like a mother trying to explain her son that the sun doesn’t go to sleep beneath the ground but it’s the Earth going around it. Altair nodded, entirely too proud of his lying. Lucy wasn’t fooled and arched her eyebrows waiting for him, daring him to go on and surprise her. She knew it wouldn’t happen. Altair, who never had the guts to give up a challenge, looked around for a bit, crossed his arms over his chest and drummed with a finger on his tattooed biceps, guessing.  
– …A whole lot? –   
Lucy sent him a flat stare that closed the topic in common and silent agreement. She was ready to raise a white flag. Out of exhaustion, not because she lost that argument. She went back on the piece of paper, tapping her hand on the recycled cellulose.  
– Any plans for the holidays? –   
Altair tried to keep up and jump, along with his friend, to the next topic.  
– Mmm, sort of. –   
An answer that meant _no_. Lucy smiled, ahead in the understanding of the general picture and translating from Altair to English.  
– I might have a proposition. –   
She looked at him, stopping the pen. Altair leaned against the wall, his arms still crossed.  
– Go on. –   
He answered, concise as usual. Lucy decided to go for a similar strategy, informing him of the few elements that she knew would have convinced him to join.  
– There will be everything you can think of that you can drink. –   
With a small step on the side, she leaned towards her friend.  
– There will be a lot of girls… –   
She whispered, letting the words hang, as light as lavender-scented essential oil vaporized over linen.  
– …and boys. –   
She couldn’t have done more than that. Now it was up to him. Altair stared at her with thinned lips, bright eyes and attentive ears. He was weighing the offer, which at the moment seemed to consist only of advantages. There was just a small missing detail.  
– Okay. –   
He started, looking down at his feet.  
– And the entertainment? –   
Lucy bit down on her bottom lip, satisfied that she had piqued his interest.  
– Dj set non-stop on a dancefloor, until you can’t feel your feet anymore. –   
Altair lifted one corner of his mouth. Now the picture was absolutely perfect.  
– Done deal. –   
He said with a half-smile, as if he was getting rid of a weight. Lucy reciprocated with a complicit stare, until something penetrated in their reserved bubble out of osmosis.  
– I’m sorry. –   
Lucy immediately snapped to attention like a prairie dog, finding herself in front of a young man, tall, a Mediterranean tint to his skin; also, he had dark and long-ish hair, slightly wavy, with a thick but well-kept beard and green eyes that lighted up the remaining darkness, like sweet paprika on hummus. Long story short: he was hot.  
– I’m here for the job interview. –   
The intruder said with a smile. He even had a nice voice, the kind you want to listen to the radio when you’re on your car and come back from the office. Lucy took her sheet again, running the list of names with her pen, but a suggestion came soon.  
– Yusuf. –   
The young man said, moving towards her and cracking the formalities that two people who don’t know each other generally entertain.  
– Yusuf Tazim. –   
He completed his own name. Altair remained there, staring at him as he moved away from the wall, studying him with his aquiline eyes, in the silence typical of introverted people. Technically he was the second after the James guy, but since Lucy liked to follow the philosophy of _the early bird catches the worm_ , she decided that she would allow him to go first. Lucy raised her eyes from the piece of paper and smiled to Yusuf. She already liked the name, but it would take more than euphony to convince her.  
– Please, Yusuf, follow me. –   
Lucy waved goodbye in silence at Altair, also suggesting him to go back to work. She left down the hallway and Altair lost sight of her, when on the contrary he could see Yusuf waving at him after winking, as if they were old friends biding each other goodbye. Altair reciprocated with a strange contraction of his face, friendly, but not adjusted to the confidence that had just been bestowed upon him. For a moment he stood there in the hallway, and took advantage of it to check his cellphone: he answered a couple of WhatsApp messages and scrolled through his Facebook for less than a minute, saving a link from a series of parkour itineraries that seemed interesting from the preview. He went back to work, sighing heavily before giving Desmond a heavy pat on the back and telling him to run to the kitchen. With his cousin gone, he turned towards the crowd, always more tenacious and hungry, starting again with the usual _whose turn was it? What can I do for you? How do you want your kebab, yogurt or spicy sauce?_ and so on: it was the steady stream of an agony, the agony of repeated survival; and sometimes it bored him to pieces.

 

Rush hour was gone, and closing time was approaching. But that didn’t stop the customers from sitting at the tables, comfortably, tasting their involucres of meat and flour dripping in between their fingers; and it didn’t stop new clients from walking in the last fifteen minutes to order a complete dinner, from appetizers to dessert. But Manhattan was like that. The entire city was: the night was the moment where the alternatives to sleeping abounded, and they stripped in front of the wallet of whoever wanted to convince themselves that rest was useless, and having fun was better.  
Altair was leaning against a stool beyond the counter, kind of distracted in one of those parentheses in which you could get a break in between clients. Shaun was serving a couple and no one else had walked in. He looked at the clock on the wall, counting the seconds that would eventually make a whole minute. He didn’t know why but that shift had seemed longer and more tiring than usual. The job interviews with the candidates had finished about two hours ago, and Altair would have willingly snuck into Lucy’s office in order to ask her if someone had beat the laborious quest of convincing her. But he knew he couldn’t take advantage of being Lucy’s _little friend_. That didn’t stop him from not giving a damn when it was convenient to him, because he was (badly) adjusted to feeling always one step above the others, one step in front of other people his age, one but in the middle of a crowd, a bolded text in the middle of a page of boring Times New Roman. But that temptation to rebel died down when he saw a client walk in. It took a quick glance at Shawn to see that he was still too busy with the couple, trying to make them understand the difference between sambusa and samosa: none. So Altair had to raise his lazy ass from the stool and drag himself to the side of the counter while he tried to hide how much he wanted to leave. But an unexpected jolt helped him to wake up as he recognized the young man he was about to serve.  
– Hey, Altair. –   
The man at the counter, who wasn’t so bored now, ran his palm over his apron, not because they were sweating or oily, but as a physical response to the surprise.  
– Hey, Kadar. –   
Altair returned the greeting, and the kid with fresh and summer-y traits smiled.  
– How are things going? –   
Added Kadar, as politeness required.  
– Everything’s okay. –  
Altair replied briefly, and exhaustively. He wouldn’t have known what else to add. He noticed Kadar glue his eyes to him and lean with his elbows on the counter’s glass, absolutely not caring about the menu’s choice. It was far from intimidating Altair, who had the same relationship with embarrassment as rubber has to electricity. Anyhow, Kadar could be in the shop for possibly three reasons: one, he was there for Malik; two, he was there to eat; three, both things. Given that Malik was not on shift, he decided to investigate. So, taking advantage of that silent pause which winked at a subtext not too well-defined, he finally spoke.  
– Malik’s shift was this morning, he’s not here now. –   
Altair said, without getting perturbed. But Kadar didn’t, either.  
– Yeah, yeah. I know. –   
He replied, his mouth the shape of a half moon, and nodding with his head. He didn’t add anything else. _Okay_ , Altair said, _then he wants to eat_. It was the logical conclusion; if not one, it was the other. He stood on one foot, his hands on his hips, and jumping to the only possible question at that point.  
– What can I give you? –   
Altair asked, moving his stare in between the containers full of salad, greens, sauces, fried pieces…  
– Your number. –   
Kadar’s smile was only as big as the insolence of what he was asking: a request at a counter in a shop, during the man’s shift, when his older brother wasn’t there and couldn’t be a nuisance. On the spot, Altair tensed his muscles, but allowed Kadar the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t like how that conversation was heading, if those two lines could be defined a conversation.  
– What do you mean? –   
He asked, coming off a bit like an idiot, because the question didn’t need many clarifications in itself. But he had decided to put aside suppositions, hints and tricks and be as literal as possible. If Kadar was really asking for his number, he had to understand _why_. So, Altair stayed there, looking at him with a flat stare, not sure of how to react, while Kadar started laughing, his elbows sliding off the counter’s glass before scratching his nose. He was cute.  
– I mean, your cell. –   
Kadar said, amused, his hand miming a phone handle with thumb and pinky finger, like you’d do with someone who’s being an idiot. The kid was smiling, though, the antithesis of contempt. Altair managed a smile, feeling like he was being an idiot, but also a bit in danger. Kadar was asking for his contact: nothing bad in exchanging them in between two regular people. But in Altair’s head echoed a thought, a murmur, a warning. _Malik is going to be pissed off_. Altair lowered his eyes, not out of embarrassment, but to find the right words to refuse that request, or at least, lose some time, changing the topic, waiting until suddenly he’d turn invisible.  
– What do you want to eat? –   
Altair asked with a smile, as if nothing happened. Kadar’s eyes narrowed into two slits, but he played the game: he glanced through the counter, weighted the food offer, curled his lips, and then pointed to some fried greens. Altair grabbed a paper bag that he started filling with the veggie balls, deluding himself into having managed to dodge that bullet. Kadar, who was far from giving up, took out his phone and remained with his thumb on the keyboard, ready, smiling at Altair like a very patient salesperson would do.  
– Come on, tell me. –   
The younger man said, reaching out to grab his night snack. Altair became evasive again, his eyes roaming around the room, which was emptier than before. He couldn’t ask anyone for help, or, who knows, a client that suddenly would slide off his chair so that he could go and help him out. Nothing. Altair then decided to stop beating around the bush and do away with his doubt. Being informed on Kadar’s real motivations was essential to better weigh his answer.  
– Why do you want it? –   
Altair moved, starting to empty a few of the trays, putting the food together, cleaning. Staying still with Kadar looking at him was making him feel just guiltier. He didn’t know why for sure, himself. Maybe because if he looked at Kadar, he couldn’t help thinking about Malik?  
– Why do I want your number? –   
Asked Kadar rhetorically, finding admirable the way Altair was trying to deflect. Maybe he had embarrassed him, or maybe he was shy, underneath. Both possibilities looked very juicy to him.  
– Because I think you’re nice. –   
He candidly confessed, without too much fuss. He walked along the counter’s glass, the fried greens still boiling hot in one hand and the cellphone in the other. Altair glanced at him and smiled in his own way (as in, weirdly). He grabbed two trays of salad and put in only one of them what edible food was left.  
– You are, too. –   
Altair replied, sincerely. That was not an invitation to go on with that pseudo-courting, but just his honest opinion. Then again, it was the year of the lord 2016, two men could exchange appreciation without looking… well, you know what people end up thinking.  
– I wanted to ask you to go out with me. –   
Okay, maybe that was more ambiguous now. Altair lifted the empty tray, putting it on a shelf behind him. Then he glanced at Kadar, while he leaned down to grab the fried veggies’ bowls that had to go back into the fridge.  
– Go out, how? –   
Asked Altair, who at that point was walking the thin line of sounding like a total retard with those requests for more clarity. If that conversation had been with anyone else, he’d have already proposed a time and hour, if interested, or he’d have gently turned that offer down if not. But this was different. This was Malik’s brother and he had to handle it with extreme care. Even if he ended up looking like a complete fool, he had to be absolutely sure of what was being asked of him, because as it was, Altair was sure that Kadar was _hitting on him_. Kadar laughed again, his hand slipping inside the bag with the fried veggies, biting at the side of a veggie ball. The kid, other than having a pretty face, also had an excellent technique, which didn’t seem to go on with a correctly developed sense of shame.  
– Something calm. –  
Kadar answered, with serenity, shrugging and munching on his food. He had no idea of what Altair was being so cautious, but he liked it.  
– We can take a walk, go to the arcade, watch a movie, grab a beer… –  
Two clients stood up and went to the check-out to pay, leaving them even more alone. Kadar was distracted by that movement, Altair wasn’t.  
– That’s all. –   
Kadar added, finishing the sentence. An invitation that didn’t look evil or dangerous, apparently, but that Altair saw as a burning charcoal: if he had ended up holding it in his hands, he’d have ended up with a bad burn. Just at the idea of _going out_ with Kadar his initial fear had turned immediately into from _Malik will be pissed_ to _Malik will kill me_. He couldn’t do it. At least not before consulting with Malik. He had to keep an equilibrium and he didn’t want to ruin that lukewarm sense of understanding that seemed to have gotten a bit better in the last few weeks. Or maybe he wanted to believe it. Anyway, _going out_ with Kadar in ambiguous terms, without Malik knowing first, would have made him turn hostile. Or better, more than usual. It wasn’t a risk he wanted to run.  
– Malik told you that I’m gay, didn’t he? –   
Asked Kadar, clear as a question on the weather, as his teeth sank in another fried veggie ball. He had lifted the veil of misunderstanding, not leaving any room for interpretation. As much as it presented new issues, Altair was grateful. He’d rather have the truth over examining his clues.  
– Yes. –   
Altair answered, without a particular tone to his voice. He hadn’t lost his cool at all. If Kadar’s question had been, _Malik told you I’m straight, didn’t he?_ , he would have been shocked. Instinctually, his first thought had been _one can see from miles that you’re gay_. And maybe that was why he had immediately replied _yes_ to that question, because in truth he had always known, having imagined from the beginning. That said, he got there but Malik hadn’t told him so, logically, Altair had just lied. For a moment his brain got caught in a contortion, trying to go back through his reasoning, but he understood that something wasn’t adding up, so he decided to be clearer.  
– I mean, no. –   
Altair was quick to precise, letting the bowls be so he could raise his hand and be more convincing.  
– He didn’t tell me, it’s that… –   
His brain short-circuited again. He’d have finished that thought saying he got there on his own, that Kadar was gay, because… _because you could see it_. But how would that consideration have sounded to the kid’s ears? Would it have been offensive to say it? Would it have sounded homophobic? Just rude? Or maybe there was nothing wrong in saying _you look gay_ because there’s nothing bad in _being gay_ after all.  
Was it him not creating enough problems, or other people who created more than necessary?  
– You understood. –   
Kadar replied coming in to help, with a smile as big as a Big Mac. Altair sighed and shrugged, with a relieved expression that shook off a bit of the tension he had accumulated. That welcoming smile gave him instant peace, and he thought that such an answer could come just from someone who liked himself enough that he could go for what he wanted without too many problems. And Altair always felt at ease with people who, before anything else, were at ease with themselves. Maybe Malik’s little brother was a cool guy after all.  
– Okay, come on, let’s do it like this. –   
Kadar started, as he finished munching on his food and fixed his backpack on his shoulder. He glanced at the time on his cell and put a hand on the counter’s glass.  
– I swear I won’t call or text. You think about it, and I only keep the number. –  
His clear eyes were standing out on that lively face with pleasant features, and were begging him to make him happy with a smiling silence; a bit like a Labrador puppy waiting for someone to throw him a ball to play. It was all a bit strange, a bit suspicious, and very much impulsive. Altair didn’t want to take any false steps, and that small percentage of a contemplative nature that belonged to him was screaming to be cautious, very cautious. And eventually, to say all the truth, he wondered, was Kadar one of those people who just went for it, playing with the risk factor, or did he know for sure that Altair liked men, as well? Did Malik tell him? Altair’s guarded expression was gradually turning into a poker face, trying to anesthetize any clue that might give out how that entire situation was turning his guts inside out.  
– Hey, calm down, I don’t bite. –   
Kadar added, laughing to himself, as cute as a high school senior. He was trying to get rid of Altair’s diffidence with composure and irony. He had no idea of why he was getting that rigid, but he liked something in the fact that it was because of him. He stayed there looking at him with the brightest of his smiles, swaying on himself and sticking another one of the fried veggies in his mouth. Really, he wasn’t in any hurry. Altair raised the corners of his mouth, his face finally gaining an expression that wasn’t the same as a block of chalk. He smiled, putting a hand on his hip and glancing around. It was time to close and he didn’t have too much time anymore to waste with winks and hints from ephebic pretty faces. He needed to stop stalling. So, he thought about it, and he thought that in the end it was just a number. He wasn’t signing a contract and anyway he would talk about it with Malik the following day. He couldn’t be guilty of anything, and Kadar was old enough to decide who he should flirt with without asking anyone for permission. Maybe. He was still in the dark about how the dynamics in between the two Syrian brothers were, but he absolutely didn’t intend to bend them at all; not intentionally, at least. So he took a decision, as in, that he’d give him that number. More so that he’d back off and not because he gave up, but Kadar didn’t need to hear that. He wasn’t the kind of person to humiliate their fans, after all.  
– Okay, okay. –   
Altair said, keeping on his lopsided half-smile and reaching over the counter. He was clearly asking for the cellphone. Kadar seemed surprised: all that effort and that pantomime, and now he didn’t even believe it himself. He quickly grabbed the cellphone from his pocket, putting on the side the half-eaten veggie ball that wasn’t so interesting anymore. He went on his tiptoes and handed Altair the cellphone, observing in detail and emotion each motion of his fingertips as he typed on the screen: a groupie at the first signed t-shirt. Altair was quick and saved it without nicknames, changing the last digit intentionally or other clumsy misses. In three seconds, he handed it back and had the clear sensation of having walked through the door of someplace he couldn’t go back from anymore. That idea created an iron-y taste in his mouth, and his smile, strange as it was, died.  
– I’ve got to go now. –  
Altair said a moment later, a bit because he really had to work, a bit because he really wanted to get away as fast as possible from something that might have turned into a mistake, even if he didn’t know yet. Kadar swallowed the veggie ball and took a step back, happy to have obtained what he desired, and honest in not pushing any further. He made a gesture of understanding with his hand, winked at him and smiled again – or better, had he ever stopped?  
– Hey, I’ll ring you just once, so you have my number back. –   
Kadar shaking his cellphone with his hand, his body language screaming _I’m about to do it, I’m about to do it, I’m doing it_. He took a couple steps back, staring at his phone, while two clients walked behind him and saying goodbye at the whole of the place, without addressing anyone in particular. Just three stubborn people were still inside, and then there were the two of them, the Syrians: the hunter and the prey. Who was which, was an intersectional question.  
– Done. –   
Kadar said, putting his phone in his pocket. He was clearly waiting for a reaction on Altair’s side and it came, bland and frayed, as usual. He grabbed the bowls and started tidying up other kitchen tools on the counter, knowing he was late both time-wise and work-wise. He only answered glancing at him as he moved his head under the counter to take back the trays.  
– It’s in the other room, I’ll save it later. –  
Kadar smiled and threw in the garbage the oily bag with the fried veggies. He was finished, and not just with eating. He stuck his hands in his pockets and he smiled, feeling fulfilled, ready to leave the scene knowing he obtained something.  
– I’ll leave you then. –   
The younger man said, waving goodbye. It was clear that Altair was busy and couldn’t pay attention to him anymore. He understood it, same as he hoped Altair understood the reasoning behind his request for a date. Altair should better make peace with it.   
Altair made a graceless motion with his face while he stood back up: his way of saying goodbye. He stayed with his eyes glued to Kadar’s back until he saw him leave, and then he let a lumpy and dirty breath leave his mouth, the kind you keep in your lungs for a long time. He put his things on the counter and put both his hands on the surface, his head half-bent down while he admitted to himself that he was tired because of this unforeseen circumstance he hadn’t asked for.  
There was no doubt that Malik was a complicated person; and there also was no doubt that for some reason Malik didn’t like him, either. So, needing to stop and maybe change strategy because of a glitch named Kadar which was, maybe, showing a crush on him, was pretty much disheartening. And irritating, too. He was daydreaming about screwing the older brother, and the younger one was asking him out. Could something go the right way, for once?  
He saw Shaun walk inside the main room and grabbing dishes from the last dirty tables, and maybe his intervention was seen from the few remaining clients like a shaded menace that said, _please get your ass out of here already_. Whoever had to pay still did, whoever had to leave, left. Altair kept on doing his job, but in a more distracted manner than usual. In that last hour of closing down and cleaning he ran into Shaun, Desmond and Lucy, but he only reserved to all of them the usual façade of an attention that was actually elsewhere, inside him. He was thinking of what to do, and how. He felt sad because he felt unlucky, but at least he felt comforted in having an excuse to talk to the object of his desires. He wouldn’t tell him the words he wanted to, but at least he would talk to him. He had to turn everything on its head to his advantage so he could stay ahead of Malik or, at least, still in the right lane. He needed to look disinterested but also attentive. He had to approach him as a friend, but also as a possible risk. He had to tell him about what happened, but take advantage of it as well to scratch beyond the surface.  
He had to talk to Malik.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, I’d be really happy to know what you think in the comment section, and if you want to follow me here’s my tumblr where I will publish updates and fanfic related stuff. 
> 
> https://almawardy.tumblr.com/
> 
> English translation is by Janie here on AO3! 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine


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